The Road to Redemption
by Rookie571
Summary: After experiencing horrific losses to his heart and his beloved unit, a former marine manages to find himself being hired on the Endurance; and along the way, falls in love with a certain archaeologist.
1. Prologue

**Hey guys! This is my first attempt at writing a Tomb Raider fanfic after I finished reading "The Camera Loves You" by Asynca, I was kinda inspired to write this story. I recommend you read it, it's a really good story. Anyways, I bring you this laughable attempt at following the guy's example. :)**

* * *

The blood loss was already starting to take a huge toll on him, and just clutching at the wound didn't do anything to help stop the steady flow of red, viscous liquid that was starting to completely soak his somewhat torn shirt. He honestly did not expect for the Solarii to make one last push at them, even with their crazed leader dead. His lips curled into a smile, Mathias certainly deserved to die the way he did, and after what he'd done here to everyone in this godforsaken hellhole these past couple of days, there wasn't any doubt in his mind that that asshole had it coming a long time ago.

And the other thing that he _really _didn't expect though was one of those crazed cultists chucking a fragmentation grenade at him, blasting his sorry ass away and peppering his already battered body with deadly fragments. He could see a couple of wounds in his legs and right foot, which wasn't really that bad; but what he was most concerned about was the fact that his stomach had a hole in it, and that he was on his way to experience what was most likely a slow and excruciatingly painful death.

The adrenaline had already kicked in, of course, dulling most of his pain away in an endorphin high. He knew those always didn't last long, and in a matter of minutes, the numbness that was preventing him from shouting like a crazed person would be finally gone. And the kicker was, he didn't regret any of it: the wounds, the mere fact that he was dying, and would probably be finished off by those crazy fuckers in a matter of seconds. He finally realized that he was actually acquiescent to his imminent death with a calm acceptance. Which was crazy, because he hadn't really given it much thought when he shielded her with his body by the last second, making sure he took the brunt of the explosion.

She only had a few minor scratches, nothing major, but other than that she was okay. Thank God. Which was actually good thing, because if she was even more severely injured than she already was, his guilt would probably eat him alive and quickly hasten his passing. It broke his heart to see her crying at him as she was beside him, begging for him to please come with him and telling him that he was going to be alright if they made it out of here together. It took all of his fading willpower not to laugh at her encouraging lie. He knew he was already a goner when he decided to protect her. He absolutely knew it, and he suspected that she knew it as well, but was fervently in denial about the whole thing.

He had told her to leave without him, which at first she intensely refused, but he looked at the beautiful woman in front of him, those spectacular brown eyes with a little speck of hazel, just looking at those jewels with his own blue orbs. He never really saw it coming, though. The fact that as he was just looking at her eyes right here and now, his mind carefully reminding him one last time that, without a doubt, he had truly and utterly fallen in love with her.

Her tears were already starting to drop on his bloodied face, and just seeing her in this sorry state made it all the more terrible on him on what he was about to ask her to do next. He had slowly raised his hand, his rough palm just gently caressing her beautiful face. It was streaked with a few cuts and bruises, but he didn't care, he thought she was perfect just the way she was. Her kind personality, her sheer willpower to have overcome all this horrible things, and her vulnerability, all of them making her more beautiful than she already is.

She slowly enclosed his hand on her face with her own, softly squeezing it to reassure him of something that would probably never come. He couldn't have picked a worse time to have madly fallen for her, he knew, but he couldn't help it. The feelings were there, they always were, and each passing day since they had been marooned on this island, it had only gotten stronger. She was crying more deeply now, her sobs piercing through what was left of his hearing. He whispered sweet nothings to her, telling her delicately in a tender voice to please stop weeping, and that in just a little while, everything would be over soon.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and he would probably always will, but it was completely unfair on her part to suffer such a heartbreaking loss like this, and she already lost people that she cared about deeply: her parents, Grim, Roth. Just adding another load to her burden wasn't the right thing to do. But if he didn't tell her how he felt, he'd probably regret it forever. So he gingerly placed his hand inside the satchel he was carrying and grabbed the papers he was looking for.

He didn't even know why he started making a journal when they got stuck here, but it seemed like the right thing to do at that time. In it, he described in every agonizing detail all the things that had happened to him, what dangers he had experienced, and most importantly, the part where he finally realized that he had truly fell in love with her. He knew he was being a selfish prick for wanting her to know, and at that moment, he just didn't care anymore. He was already dying anyway, what was he going to lose?

He extracted the documents out of the bag and gave it to her, telling her to read it, and to leave him before the rest of the Solarii arrived. Again, she told him she wasn't leaving him behind. And at that moment, without even any logical thought whatsoever, he slung his hand around the back of her head and pulled her for a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. It was just a simple smack, nothing more, but it conveyed everything he ever felt about her in that instant, so for one final time, he finally told her to please leave him and never look back. And she did, albeit a little hesitantly.

Now, as he leaned against the rubble, he could hear the rest of those fuckers converging on his position, shouting orders to encircle him and fill him with lead once they had him in their sights. Again, he really didn't care. As if it was sweet music to his ears, the PT boat that they had repaired earlier was finally rumbling to life, its straining engines finally starting to fade away as it trekked its way out of here. For one last time, he smiled. She was safe.

Readying his old service pistol from the Corps, he couldn't help but wonder if he was ever going to meet with the rest of his team. Allen, Ramirez, Peterson. In a few short moments, he was going to meet them, hoping to God that they would welcome him with open arms after what he'd done to them.

With nothing left to lose, he stood up, faced the enemy, and fired his weapon.


	2. Firefight

**July 3rd 2008 (Five years ago)**

Iraq. It wasn't exactly the most idyllic paradise he'd ever been in, but in some other special ways, it wasn't that bad of a place either. This nation had such a rich history, its people once great rulers of this fine land, and whose cultures were spanning thousands and thousands of years old. All in all, it was a really beautiful country. And right now, seeing this once great state collapse because of an egotistical dictator didn't seem fair to all these innocent people right here. They didn't do anything to deserve such an unjust ruler like Saddam Hussein, but then again, life wasn't really that fair to begin with when it came to war and suffering.

Corporal Michael Collins couldn't shake the irony of it all as he sat inside one of the Humvees that were speeding inside the city of Ramadi. The war was supposed to be over five years ago when Baghdad fell and Saddam captured, yet they didn't anticipate the arrival of the domestic insurgency as it swept throughout the entire country, targeting military personnel and vehicles with IEDs and ambushes. The casualties were extremely heavy, and the insurrectionists didn't even bother to discriminate between friend or foe when they opened up on approaching convoys, targeting any unfortunate civilians who got in their way.

Five years the insurgency had started, and it seemed there wasn't any end in sight. It was troubling, to say the least. These people had no intention of ever giving up, and everyday their attacks grew stronger and bolder. Last week, they ripped up an armored group of vehicles belonging to Kilo Company with RPGs and some carefully placed bombs along the main road. Took out three trucks and fourteen marines in a blink of an eye, there weren't even any enemy casualties as the insurgents just shot and ran before they even had a chance to fight back.

The rest of the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines were getting mauled everywhere in this city, which only confirmed their reports of hidden weapons caches dispersed in the area. Trying to find one of them was like finding a needle in a bunch of haystacks, except the haystacks here were heavily armed with home-made explosives and anti-tank weaponry. Opposition was heavy in the city center, where they were already softening them up with indirect fire support from the Weapons Company's 81mm mortars, lobbing high-explosive shells throughout the enemy perimeter.

His fire team, which was directly attached to Third Platoon, Lima Company, was assigned the daunting task of probing the enemy's defenses to ascertain its capabilities in the upcoming assault. He didn't even want to think about what had happened to the previous platoon that was assigned to a task like this, when they were torn to shreds with AK-47s two days ago, postponing the planned attack due to insufficient intel. He hoped to God that their incursion would go unnoticed by the enemy.

"Hey Mike," the sound of Private First Class Keith Peterson broke through his deep thoughts, the man's eyes on him with a questioning gaze. "you okay there, buddy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He assured him with a quick smile. "Just got a lot to think about, I guess."

"About what?"

"Probably thinking about his girlfriend again," Lance Corporal John Allen interrupted, his wide grin showing his perfect white teeth. "ain't that right, sir?" Next to Allen, Private First Class Victor Ramirez gave out a snort.

"Like who _wouldn't _think about Mike's girl, have you seen her lately? She's fuckin' hot as hell." Mike couldn't help but chuckle at the man's somewhat astute observation. Victor was his best friend since he graduated from Basic back at Parris Island a year ago and they've been inseparable ever since. It was hard not to like the guy, he was damn funny and he could turn any stressful situation they were into as if they were relaxing at the spa with a quick joke here or a witty remark there. Whenever he could sense that the squad was a bit too high strung, all he needed to do was open his mouth and take it from there.

Keith, on the other hand, was a reserved kind of guy, laidback, and was a bit too serious at times. The guy could outdrink anyone under the table whenever they had the chance to find a decent bar. Mike thought it was because the guy had blue eyes, same as him, which was said to be sign that people could hold their own when it came to drinking hard liquor. They said it was a distinct, scientific fact, but he'd believe it when he could actually beat the guy in a drinking contest. So far, no such luck there.

John was the exact opposite of Keith, though, and he never shuts up if you had happened to talk about all his interests; which really weren't that interesting to begin with. He was pretty much your typical southern redneck, except he had a knack for demolitions and big guns, which was why he was the perfect fit for carrying the fire team's M249 squad automatic weapon.

They were pretty much from all over the States, he was from Long Beach, California; Victor from Albany, New York; Allen was from Houston (which was a no-brainer); and Peterson came from Colorado. A couple of months ago, they were always at each other's throats, always making fun of one another because of where they lived, their accents, and just a bunch of other nontrivial things. Some of the time they would do pranks just to ruin someone else's day. Like what had happened three weeks ago, on a whim, Allen placed whip cream on Peterson's hand and poked his cheek to make sure he'd scratch his face with it. It didn't take long before the guy splashed himself and Allen ran away laughing while Peterson threatened to kill him. He eventually retaliated by shaving both of Allen's eyebrows while he was asleep, and the poor southerner had been the laughing stock of the platoon for an entire week.

But right now though, they were brothers. All of them bounded by the same call of duty that made them enlist in the Marines because they knew it was the right thing to do. They often disagreed on some points, but other than that, they watched each other's backs without question. And he was proud to be their leader…well, most of the time anyway.

"So, what was she like then?" Allen asked Victor about Mike's girlfriend. He usually didn't want to talk about his relationship to the rest of the guys because of their…colorful opinions of her. But for now, he'd make an exception.

"Who? Heather?" Victor just smiled a bit before his eyes had that exaggeratingly dreamy look. "Well, she's this gal Mike met in California before we shipped out. Boy, you guys should've seen this broad: those scrumptious curves on her hips, green eyes that put expensive emeralds to shame, an ass _soooo_ perfect that you could just take one look at those bubbly cheeks and cry. Tits weren't that bad either…"

"Ohhhh-kay," He quickly intervened before things got any worse. "That's enough wild imaginations for today." Victor just laughed out loud at that.

"When's the last time you saw her, sir?" Peterson inquired earnestly, his hands just cradling the M16A4 assault rifle in his hands.

"I don't know, maybe…about eight months or so?" He faced Victor. "Was it?"

"Something like that," his best friend mused, "where'd she go to school again?"

"University College London, somewhere near Bloomsbury, I think."

"You got a picture?" Allen requested, and he hesitated. In here, it wasn't really advised to show a picture of anyone's hot girlfriend to any other marines. Because if they eventually see it, they'd ask to borrow it for a few moments to do a certain…deed. Then another one would ask to borrow, and then another, and pretty soon you'd lose the picture entirely with no idea where it'll be. But this was his team, they were practically family..._oh, what the hell._

He slid his hand inside the flak jacket he wore to access one of his pockets underneath, then retrieved the picture and shown it to Allen. The southerner delicately grabbed it, then his eyes went wide and his jaw practically dropped.

"Jesus Christ." The picture was of a fair-skinned Heather wearing a yellow halter top that prominently displayed her cleavage, along with a pair of white shorts that served to show off her long shapely legs. He remembered taking that picture of her when they were walking on the fine sand beaches of San Diego, just outside Camp Pendleton. It had been a beautiful Wednesday morning, and when he called out to her, he quickly took a surprise shot with his Nikon F6 camera when she looked at him with a small endearing smile, unaware of what he'd done. That was also the moment he'd come to realize that he'd come to really, _really_ care about her. Next to Allen, Peterson leaned a bit closer and smiled as he saw the photo.

"She's a keeper, Mike."

"I can proudly say," Victor said to them in a sagely voice, "that my best bud here, has tapped that beautiful woman's glorioooous ass." The three of them laughed out loud while he playfully swatted his best friend's shoulder in annoyance. When it came to Heather, he certainly did have a way with his mouth.

"All kidding aside bro, when're you going to meet her again?"

"Well, Vic, I asked the captain if I could have shore leave this coming Thursday to go to England for her birthday."

"That's three days from now," Allen observed as he handed him back his picture. "how in the hell are you going to convince the skipper to let you have liberty in the middle of a goddamned war?" He just smirked at the lance corporal, and again the man's jaw dropped in disbelief.

"You didn't."

"Yep, I just did." He happily explained. "After this op is done, I'm going to have a forty-eight hour pass and surprise her there, with a bouquet of white roses in hand."

"You are one romantic son-of-a-bitch, sir." He laughed heartily at the lance corporal's opinion.

"Thanks, Allen." He was having a brief daydream on what Heather's reaction would be like if she saw him standing outside her room when the radio crackled to life, his squad leader's voice prominent on the line.

"_Lima Three-One-Actual to all Lima-Three-One elements, radio check, over._" Mike reached over his tactical radio and pressed the transmit button.

"Three-One-Alpha here, read you five by five, over."

The rest of the fire teams from First Squad reported in for the next few seconds, signifying the line was nominal and everything was functional. Lima Three-One-Actual, which was the squad leader, proceeded with his en route briefing.

"_Alright Three-One, listen up. Intel gathered by the Third Light Armored indicates that the insurgents are trying to set up a bottleneck for our upcoming advance in the sector. They fortified two buildings that are across from each other which guard the approach towards the city center's main intersection. Be advised, heavy MGs and RPGs are reported to have been spotted in the area. I want Three-One-Bravo guarding one of the buildings' flanks for any possible flanking maneuvers. I'll take Charlie and position on the other side. Three-One-Alpha, head down the middle and try to goad them into revealing their positions. Once they've been marked, fall back and regroup. Acknowledge._"

"Three-One-Alpha, copies all." The rest of the squad responded as well.

"_Good, we're about less than two mikes away from the drop-off point. Stay frosty, marines. Three-One-Actual, out._" And with that, the line clicked off.

"Sooo," Allen drawled. "I guess now's a bad time to ask for a piss break."

"Funny," Mike deadpanned, "you're a real friggin' comedian, Allen."

"I aim to please." He smiled briefly before he changed into his serious demeanor

"Okay, Ramirez, I want you on point. Call out any hostiles you see and I'll relay it back towards the squad freq." Victor just gave him a slight nod.

"Ten seconds." The Humvee's driver called out in front of them.

"Lock and load, marines." The four of them immediately did their ammo and weapons checks. Mike grabbed a magazine from his vest's ammo pouch, tapped the back of it into the side of his helmet, and loaded it in his M4 carbine. It was an old habit, but a necessary one. If he hadn't done it, there was a strong possibility that the rounds wouldn't have been moved all the way towards the back of the mag and it would've caused a misfeed on the rifle's self-loading mechanism; a problem which he didn't want to have in the middle of a firefight.

The Humvee stopped in its tracks, and the four of them immediately disembarked. Behind them, a group of two other similar vehicles quickly disgorged their own occupants in an orderly fashion as well. After which, all three armored transports backed up and made its way directly back towards the FOB.

The other fire teams were rapidly moving out towards their assigned tasks. Three-One Bravo going right, while Three-One-Charlie went left. Mike led his three-man unit and went deeper into the approach, cautious and slowly, not wanting to overextend his advance. He signaled Victor to move on up ahead and act as the team's lead scout.

It was eerily quiet, and with every slow step he took it made his heart beat even faster. The single road that was leading towards the intersection up ahead spanned to about a hundred meters, and just about twenty meters behind the crossroads, were a pair of damaged buildings with varied height, standing in their way. He couldn't see any activity yet, and he didn't know whether he should be thankful or frightened. If the insurgents weren't there, they must've displaced, and it might take another while for them to find them again and acquire their position. If they were there, that means they were just waiting for him and the rest of the battalion to move in and hit them from above.

Either way, it was no-win situation for the rest of the guys back at the base. But he was a marine, and he still had a job to do. Mike gestured for Victor to proceed onward, for Peterson to be just a few meters behind the point man, and also signaled Allen to set up his SAW to provide covering fire if they were somehow spotted. On both sides of the road were two lines of four-meter high concrete walls that were, in another life, previously used to keep intruders from entering in someone else's property. Now, it was an inconvenience because they couldn't just enter buildings on the other side if ever they were under fire.

They were way, way out in the open, and if the insurgents find them now, he knew they would be completely and utterly fucked. He slowly followed Victor and Peterson close behind by a few meters, making sure there was enough proper spacing.

So far so good, and they were already halfway towards the intersection. _Just a little bit more…_

"Contact!" Allen shouted from behind them, and the lance corporal immediately opened fire. Ahead, he could see the rounds impacting on a window on the right side building's fifth floor, where an unfortunate insurgent happened to be just standing there, still in shock to see the marines approaching when the LMG's 7.62mm projectiles perforated his abdomen.

All hell broke loose as the occupants on both buildings went on high alert and opened fire on them with their own weapons. On the left side building, he saw an old Soviet-era DShK heavy machine gun that was inside the third floor window going full-auto on them, the heavy slugs peppering everywhere around him.

He instantly went down on the ground and hugged the road's left side wall, trying to shield himself away from the .50 caliber bullets raining down on the center of the road. On the wall adjacent to him, Victor and Peterson were also diving towards the dirt, trying to maintain a low silhouette as possible to hide themselves from the gun's line-of-sight.

"_Three-One-Alpha,_" his radio came to life,"_this is Bravo, what's happening there?_"

"We've been engaged." He slowly rose from the ground to get a good look on the right side building guarding the intersection, only to have a few MG rounds whizz by on his head that struck on the wall. He immediately went back down again. "We're taking heavy fire from the two buildings, how's everything on your end?"

"_Those bastards just went out of nowhere and clipped one of my guys, we're pinned down here. Can you assist, over?_"

"That's a negative, Bravo. They got a DShK here; we're combat ineffective at this time. Any word from Three-One-Charlie, over."

"_Negative, I tried reaching them, no word from them, over._"

"Damn it…" He cursed without pressing the radio's transmit button. If they had somehow managed to get through towards fire team Charlie's position, there was a huge possibility they could get outflanked, and they'd eventually be cut off if they still stayed here and do nothing.

Worse, the squad leader had been commanding Charlie. With him possibly lost, who was going to take over the squad? He had to think fast, it was only a matter of time before the enemy was going to converge on their position and overrun them.

"Sir!" Victor's voice called out to him. "What're your orders?"

_Fuck. Think man, think! _With a deep breath, he keyed on the tac-radio.

"Bravo, I'm taking command of the squad, leave two men there and send another one here to rendezvous with us."

"_What?_" Bravo's team leader said, the man's disbelief completely recognizable in his tone. "_What the hell are you trying to pull here, Collins?_"

"I'll try to link up with Charlie, I'll leave two men here while me, Vic, and your guy try to reestablish contact."

"_That's fucking crazy, man. Who the hell suddenly put you in charge?_" The way the guy kept on questioning on his ability to lead suddenly made him angry, and he could feel his anger boiling on the surface as he tightened his hold on his rifle's pistol grip. There wasn't any more time to debate this, his fellow marines were probably dead or dying, and yet the bastard still didn't realize it.

"If you have a better idea, bring it up the next staff meeting! Until then, shut the hell up, and send one of your fucking men here, right the fuck _now_!" He didn't realize that he was already screaming on his radio, and he immediately regretted doing so. He wasn't technically next in the squad's chain of command if ever their sergeant was taken out or incapacitated, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And they needed to act quickly. All he could hear on the other end of the line was static for a few more seconds until the man's voice returned, although with an unusually softer tone.

"_I'm sending you Kowalski, me and Taylor will hold this position 'til then while we patch Herb up. I hope you know what you're doing Mike. Bravo out._"

He could see the insurgents still firing their weapons at thrm, while his men tried to return as much fire towards the enemy as possible, which was hard, considering the circumstances they were in right now.

"You and me both, man." He whispered to himself as he sprinted towards Victor to tell him his crazy ass plan.


	3. Counter-attack

"For the record, I think this is a _really_ bad idea."

"Your objection has been duly noted, Vic." Mike frustratingly replied. "Just like the last three times you've said it since we broke contact five minutes ago."

"Just sayin' man, I got a bad feeling about this."

He couldn't argue with his best friend's logic there, because he was having the same doubts Victor had about this whole thing as well, and this was _his_ plan to begin with. Since assuming command of the squad, the lingering fear that had been building up inside of him earlier had intensified, and he couldn't do anything about it.

The three of them—him, Vic, and Kowalski from team Bravo—were slowly approaching fire team Charlie's last known position. He brought his carbine up, shouldered the telescopic butt stock, and scanned the area they were cautiously approaching. For all they know, a whole platoon could be there waiting in ambush, and they'd be decimated before they could even pull the triggers on their weapons.

He mentally shook that thought off. Now wasn't the time to have any further uncertainties about his own judgment. There were people's lives at stake here, and it was his newfound responsibility to try and get them all out of this mess alive. Which was no pressure at all. _Yeah right…_

Up ahead about three meters, he heard something fall and made a loud clanging noise. He immediate aimed his M4 to bear, bringing the red dot sight on a vendor's cart where he heard the racket originate from. His heart rate jacked, and he could feel it bouncing off on his fingertips that carried his weapon. Sweat was pouring heavily out of his forehead now, and it took all of his self-discipline not to get a hand there to wipe it off, fearing the enemy might make their move on him as he did so.

The sound returned again, and the three of them flinched, their rifles ready to unleash a bullet storm of hell on whoever was behind that rackety cart—when a single brown goat gradually emerged from it, the animal's head innocently swinging at their direction without a care in the world.

_Baaaah._

He put away his carbine's barrel that he had pointed on the lost livestock, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was friggin' ridiculous. He was so wound up like a damned spring that he almost shot a defenseless animal that had obviously been cut off from its herd or owner.

"You've gotta be kidding." Kowalski said in incredulity as he slowly lowered his own weapon. "Little bastard scared the living hell out of me." Victor chuckled, proceeding to move forward to continue their stride towards Charlie.

"Same here bro, for a second there I thought we were fucked."

"Let's just keep on moving," Mike said to both of them with a small smile, motioning ahead. "before any more livestock ambushes us."

"Copy that, si—" He heard a single round whizz nearby, which had hit something with a sickening crunch. Quickly turning around, his eyes widened when he saw Kowalski's throat had exploded in a gory mess. The poor bastard dropped his weapon as he went down on his back, both of his hands trying to cover up the fatal wound.

"Ambush!" Victor screamed as he took cover in another nearby cart, the insurgents finally showing themselves by charging up and firing their vintage AKs. It was all happening too fast, and seeing Kowalski withering on the ground with blood spurting out of his mouth and his wrecked esophagus was a bit too much to look at.

Several rounds impacted near his feet, bringing him back to reality and taking cover, while he cursed himself for zoning out in a middle of a firefight. The injured marine was just about two meters next to him at a stall filled with various fruits. He had to get to him fast before Kowalski finally bled out.

He tried to move past his makeshift shelter, but the edges of it exploded as two enemy riflemen burst fired their weapons at his direction, forcing him back into cover.

"Hang in there, marine!" He tried to assure Kowalski, who was just looking at him back with those tired eyes, his mouth kept on moving along with his body, as if to give out a pained, silent scream. _Fuck, I have to do something!_

"Victor!" He called out towards his comrade, who was just ahead of him, trading potshots with the Iraqis.

"What?"

"Give me some covering fire! On three…" He adjusted the fire selector on his carbine to full-auto, steadied his own erratic breathing, then rose up from his cover. "Three!"

Both of them fired at the direction of the enemy at the same time, their weapons churning out high-cyclic 5.56mm rounds at the hostiles ahead of them. Two went down quickly at where they stood, and the others took cover. With that, he quickly disengaged and went sprinting towards Kowalski's side, his free hand opening the first-aid kit strapped in his leg.

Assessing the wound, he grimaced when he finally saw the full extent of the damage. It didn't look good at all, and just by watching it, he knew he was already a goner. Still, he had to at least do something about it or his conscience would've killed him out of pure guilt. He grabbed a hemostatic field dressing and placed it on the guy's throat, making sure that it was completely covered.

"Just hang in there, man." He said to Kowalski. "I'll get you a MEDEVAC. Don't worry." It was a two-faced lie, and he knew it. But the dying man didn't seem to think so as he just gave him a slight nod, trying to say something to him, but the only thing the guy managed was a few gurgles out of his blood-filled mouth.

An armed trio of insurgents had managed to avoid most of Victor's fusillade, where he spotted them on the process of taking aim on his best friend's blind side. _Shit! _He raised his carbine and let loose a few bursts fired from the hip. One of them went down with three rounds to the chest; the second got clipped on the shoulder screaming while the third fled without a scratch. They couldn't stay here too long, they had to move.

He ejected his spent clip, grabbed another from the ammo pouch in his vest, and loaded it into his rifle. The enemy was slowly trying to advance, using fire and maneuver to pin them down while they started to move inch by inch. This whole situation was completely FUBAR, and he needed a solution.

"Col…lins…" He dove back to cover and heard Kowalski's weak voice, the guy softly gripping the edge of his boot. The dressing he placed managed to somehow slow the bleeding, but it was only a matter of time before he'd pass away.

"I'm here, bro." He set aside his rifle and went close to him, clutching the dying man's hand with both of his. "We're going to get you out of here." He hated himself for lying straight to the man's face, but he couldn't bear to tell him the truth. Kowalski just gave him a weak smile, his blood-stained teeth clearly obvious.

"Bull…shit…" He sighed shakily, hearing his fellow marine say those words made Mike feel even worse. The fact that Kowalski was already accepting his death was a bit too much to contemplate. In all his time here in Iraq, he had never lost a single man under his command; and even though this guy wasn't technically part of his team, just seeing him slowly bleed to death made his heart ache. He squeezed his hand fervently.

"Stay with me, man." Kowalski's breathing was already labored, each breath starting to lessen than the one before it while his eyes started to droop down. "Kowalski! Stay with me!"

"Sorry…Mike…" Kowalski exhaled one last time, his head finally resting over to one side as the rest of his body went limp; the hand that was gripping his own finally losing its grasp.

_Holy shit._

The guy was dead. He was seriously fucking dead. A few moments ago this guy was still alive, the same guy who got startled by a lost goat earlier. And now he was fucking dead. Kowalski's eyes didn't close all the way, so he unsteadily raised his arm and gently pulled the eyelids down.

"Sir!"

His hands went through to Kowalski's neck, slipping it underneath the armored vest (which didn't do him any good) and his fatigues to retrieve the one thing that was residing there: his dog tags. He gently pulled the first one and pocketed it; he was going to hand it over to Bravo's fire team leader later, which was something that he wasn't really looking forward to. But he owed the dead marine his life, and it really had to be done anyway. Whether he wanted to or not.

"Mike!" He faintly heard Victor yell out his name as he grabbed the rifle on the ground. His hands still had Kowalski's blood in it, and the sight of it made his stomach churn, the urge to just hurl out his guts completely overpowering. But he stowed it, and forcibly swallowed some of the bile back inside. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was a marine, damn it, and they still had something that needed to be done.

"Victor!" He yelled out to his best friend. "Take cover!" His best friend just gave him a look, before he burrowed down further on his dilapidated wagon without question. Mike grabbed an M67 grenade from his vest, pulled the cotter pin and let the safety lever fly off, rewarding him with a satisfying ping. He waited for about three seconds, making sure to delay the fuse so that the enemy didn't have time to throw it back. When he reached three, he carefully lobbed it under cover. "Fire in the hole!"

A loud roar was heard, followed by the screams of the insurgents as the explosive detonation consumed them with hot, metallic fragments. He didn't waste any time taking advantage of this newfound opportunity.

"Go!" He ordered as he vaulted from his cover, M4 carbine in hand, with Victor just next to him as they crouch-sprinted towards the enemy position. He saw a few wounded insurgents trying to reach for their weapons, but they didn't have the chance. Both of them methodically hosed them down, one by one, each given a burst towards their chest.

He knew this wasn't completely all of them, and he could see the few remaining survivors taking shelter at a small, single story house with no windows just a dozen meters away; the kind of house that was prevalent throughout this entire country. Those insurrectionist bastards thought they were completely safe, but he had a plan.

"Victor, on me." He led with his buddy, just running for a few more meters until they arrived, their backs leaning on the structure's wall as they tried to catch their breath, while he faced Victor.

"You still have that leftover C4 from last week's sweep?"

"Yeah," Victor nodded while he panted. "why?"

"Give it here."

Victor did as he was told; patting his pockets and pouches for a few seconds until he finally found what he was looking for and handed it over. Two blocks of composition C4 taped together with another primary explosive attached to serve as a trigger. He flung it across the house's roof and gestured for him and the private to put some distance between the building and them.

With that, he gave his friend a slight nod as Victor pulled out a remote detonator and gleefully pressed the red, soft button with a huge grin. A huge explosion blasted the roof in huge pieces, shattering what was left of the structure and burying the fuckers inside. A few pieces of debris started to fall down after being thrown several dozen feet in the air, with the dust finally starting to settle down.

Usually, if it were up to him, he'd ask those insurgents to surrender and lay down their arms. Not today though, and they deserved this sort of burial. They came here to help them rebuild this glorious country, and the only way they wanted to pay them back was an ongoing domestic insurgency, which has already resulted in thousands of military and civilian deaths; with more to come.

He knew he was being a bit naïve when he joined up the Marines after finishing college, but at that time, he really truly believed that once he was here, he was going to make a difference. To bring down the radical insurrectionists, repairing damaged homes and families and all that good stuff. He sighed, realizing how foolish he was for having been so idealistic. He grimly noted that once the bullets started flying here, everything he thought he already knew would change by the time he fired back with his rifle.

"Come on," he beckoned for Victor to follow him. "Charlie's bound to be this way."

* * *

Ten minutes and two spent magazines later, they found them. He could see fire team Charlie's gunned down remains just out in the open, with blood gushing out from various different wounds. The four-man team they were keenly hoping to find, all dead; along with their squad leader. Overhead, the vultures were just circling around, waiting for him and his best friend to depart so they could finally have their meal.

_Merciless bastards. _He tightened his fists, his anger once again coming back in full force. Nobody deserved to die like this. Next to him, he could see Victor's face was impassive, just trying to take it all in, seeing his fellow marines having been killed without remorse. The private slowly went to them, taking a knee as he grabbed one of the dead guy's hands and muttering a prayer.

He wasn't so used to seeing this much death; this was the first time he'd been out on a full-blown firefight. Although there were a few skirmishes he and his fire team participated every now and then, they weren't anything like this. He just hoped Allen and Peterson were okay and that they were having it better compared to him and Vic. Moving forward near his dead squad leader's body, he crouched down and took out the dead guy's signal codes out of his pocket. Hoping the dead sergeant wouldn't mind what he was doing. It was the main reason they were here besides linking up with Charlie, because with it, they could finally try and contact the platoon commander and maybe get them some support.

He ordered Victor to keep a lookout as he brandished his tac-radio. Having acquired what he came here for, he readjusted its frequency, took a deep breath, and keyed the transmit button.

"Lima Three, this is Lima Three-One-Alpha. How copy, over?" He couldn't hear anyone on the line for the next few seconds or so, hearing nothing but static until a voice finally came through.

"_Lima Three-One-Alpha, this is Lima Three. Sit-rep, over._" Mike gripped his tac-radio hard, trying to collect his thoughts on what had just happened to them.

"Situation as follows: we have been heavily engaged and are taking casualties. Repeat, minus five, Three-One-Charlie completely KIA. Please advise, over." He could hear someone heave a sigh on the other end of the line before they responded. They must've expected this op to be easy as pie.

"_Three-One-Alpha, be advised we are rerouting CAS gunships to your position. Asset call sign Viper Three-Four. Prepare to relay grid coordinates, transferring transmission now. Standby…_"

Mike blinked in surprise. He was expecting some sort of evac or relief, but he hadn't anticipated the possibility of having heavily armed choppers coming to his aid. The REMFs must really have a hard-on for wanting that push towards the city center so badly. But, he'll take whatever he can get. Again, he shuffled through his dead squad leader's pockets and came out with a map of this area, surprisingly complete with determined pre-set locations and IP references. It was a godsend. With this unexpected wonder, calling in that strike would be much more easier.

He silently thanked his deceased squad commander for having thought of doing this before leaving the FOB. Even in death, the guy was still looking out for his subordinates. Spreading the chart open, he carefully assessed his whereabouts, looking around to see any designated landmarks that might help mark his position.

"_Three-One-Alpha, this is Viper Three-Four,_" his radio suddenly squawked. "_we're inbound with two Zulu Cobras coming in from the south, at IP Cadillac; armed with a full load of twenty-mike-mikes and Hellfire missiles. How copy, over?_"

He looked over his map once again. _Cadillac…Cadillac…ah-hah!_ Just two klicks to the west from where he was standing, which meant there wasn't enough time left before they arrive. He had to do this fast. Grabbing his radio, he quickly responded.

"Viper Three-Four, this is Three-One-Alpha, come in from the west at three-two-zero on a north-to-south axis. Target is two buildings, first one is colored grey with four stories, and another one that's color tan with seven stories that are between the road. Both are near intersection—" he looked at the map to verify. "Snoopy at grid papa-bravo-two-zero-niner, be advised friendlies are danger close. Watch where you shoot, how copy over?"

"_Solid copy on all, we're coming in hot, ETA twenty seconds. Standby,_" From a distance, he could finally hear the distinct two-bladed rotors closing in. The roar from the choppers became louder and louder until he could finally see them approaching, their stubby wings armed with AGM-114 Hellfire missiles, usually used against armored targets, but today it seemed like they were going to make an exception. "_target in sight, launching missiles._"

The two choppers were temporarily obscured from smoke as the missiles leapt from the launchers and rocketed its way towards the designated buildings. Huge chunks of the thing were flying in several different directions as the explosions blew them apart. He sure as hell didn't admire those guys that were inside the two doomed structures, it looked like it was going to collapse.

"_Missiles are spent, switching to guns._" The 20mm heavy caliber rounds started pounding what was left of the buildings, punching holes and decimating probable targets with ease. He could see the spent shells falling down on the ground, the metal glittering from the sunlight. As they kept on their relentless assault for a few more seconds, they finally stopped, with a chopper closing in to inspect their handiwork.

"_Three, you see anything down there?_"

"_That's a negative, Four._" The pilot on the chopper near the battered buildings responded. "_Everything's dead here, over._"

"_Roger that. Three-One-Alpha, this is Viper Three-Four. Munitions are expended, we are RTB. Good luck down there, fellas._"

"Roger Viper, much obliged and thanks for the assist. Out." He could see both of the AH-1Z Cobra gunships circling around the buildings one last time before they bugged out east, heading towards home. He could hear the sounds of someone hooting and cheering, probably Allen, as the choppers passed on the road. Undoubtedly waving and blowing kisses at them, for all he knew.

"Where to, sir?" Victor asked him, finally done with giving the respected dead their final rites. Mike gave one last look to his slain comrades, making sure that he would never forget, then grabbed his radio.

"Home."

* * *

The ride back towards FOB Hammer was a quiet one. Total amount of casualties had reached six, as Private Herb Travers from fire team Bravo passed away from a single gunshot wound that nicked his arm, severing the brachial artery. First Squad had suffered a lot today, and replacements were coming in, which were due next week. It was a miracle that his fire team hadn't sustained any KIA or killed in action.

When he and Victor linked up with the rest of the squad at the center of the road earlier, he wordlessly returned Kowalski's dog tag towards the slain marine's fire team leader. He remembered seeing the man's face, just looking at the tag on his palm with a silent expression, staring at it for about a few minutes when his gaze locked in with his eyes. They were filled with pained anger, and he saw the man's fist clenched at his side when he slowly approached him. Just standing about a foot apart, he thought the guy was going to deck him for having his friend killed under his command.

Truth was, he knew he truly deserved it. If he had just kept an eye earlier after that stupid goat appeared, none of this would've happened. But what's done was done, and Kowalski was never going to come back home again. Yet, the expected blow never came. He just looked at him for a few moments before walking away, not uttering a single word. They must've been close, and because of him, he was gone.

He just hoped that the op earlier was worth it. He heard from his company CO that the battalion was already rolling its heavy tanks on the intersection, making their way towards the city center to proceed with their objective of clearing Ramadi from the insurgents, saying they could complete the mission by the end of the day. He tried to rationalize that what he did was for the good of his company, his battalion, and overall, throughout the rest of the Corps and his country. Then, his guilt would slowly ebb its way towards the corners of his mind; just painfully reminding him of how he failed someone's friend.

_Damn it._ He shifted on his cot, just lying there while his eyes stared underneath the top of the tent. Why'd did he have to die? He knew it was a silly question to ask, and he already knew the answers to it, but he just wanted to know why Kowalski took that bullet and not him. He kept replaying what the fading marine had said to him before he passed, apologizing for dying. It didn't even seem right at all, when he should be the one apologizing towards him.

He needed to clear his head before his trip to see Heather in London, the last thing he needed was to be such a wreck on the day he'd surprise her for her birthday. But how was he going to do that? See the battalion's shrink? Maybe Colonel Griggs had some fancy psychological trick that'll make him forget all of his remorse. He brought both of his hands and covered his face. _I'm a fucking mess..._

"Penny for your thoughts there, bro?" Sliding one of his fingers that covered his eye, he saw Victor sitting on the bed next to his, concern clearly etched on his facial features.

"I'm fine, man." He tried to assure him, making his voice sound reasonable. But this was Victor, his best friend, and the guy could easily read him like a damn book.

"With all due respect, man. No, you're not." The private stood from his cot and sat on the edge of his own, patting his foot to make him give room. "You're having that look."

"What look?"

"That silent look, you know? The one where you just stare out at something for hours on end, thinking about what you'd done wrong and blaming yourself." Was he really that obvious then? He assured his team on the ride back here before that he was okay. But then again, they didn't have Victor's sense of intuition. _Oh, fuck it. He's my best friend anyway…_

"I just…I just think that I could've done something different back there, bro. If I did, Kowalski would still be here and I wouldn't feel like shit."

"It wasn't your fault, Mike." Victor assured him. "You did everything you could when the shit the fan, and you manage to salvage what was left of the op. I'd say that's a win."

"I still think there might've been another way..." He softly said to him, not looking at Victor eyes when he did.

"Listen, bro. If you hadn't taken charge like that earlier, what do you think would've happened to us?" He considered what the man had said. He had a few points, but still…

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts, we could've been overrun and killed, just like Charlie. But you saved the day, man. That's got to count for something, right?"

"Yeah," He finally conceded with a sad smile, "I…I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm fucking right," He stood up and playfully shoved his leg. "I always am, aren't I?" He couldn't help but laugh at his best friend, finally relieving him of most of the unwanted stress.

"You bastard…" He cursed at him, but there wasn't any real malice in it, just a form of soldierly endearment that made him realize how lucky he was for having Victor help him out when he needed it the most.

"Well, now that I think about. I wouldn't mind it at all, you just moping around here while I grab your pass and go to England." Mike slowly looked at him, his expression neutral where Victor just continued on grinning and went on talking._ Where the hell was he going with this?_ "That way, I could take your place, surprise Heather with the flowers that you bought, and who knows? Maybe I might even get lucky."

He threw the pillow he was using while Victor ran away laughing his ass off. Sometimes, he really hated that bastard's guts.


	4. Directions

**Hi guys! I know it's asking a lot to write there in the review box in telling me what you all think about this, but I just wanted you to know that I really appreciated all your thoughts and opinions. So here's to you guys, cheers! And be awesome! :)**

* * *

"_...this is Heather, sorry if I'm unavailable right now, but just leave your name and message after the beep and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Byeeeee!"_

_BEEP._

"Hey babe, it's Mike. Listen, I was just calling to see if you were there. But apparently you're not, so I'll just stick to listening to your voice in the mail." He exhaled, gently holding the telephone's handset in his ear. "God I miss your voice, it's been like…what, two or three weeks since we last talked to each other? I know you're a bit busy with all your college work and stuff, believe me when I say can relate, but…I really just miss you. I miss talking to you and hearing about your day, just complaining about how awful your professors were for giving you this and that, but more importantly, I really just plain miss you. If this all works out around here, hopefully I'll see you soon enough…I love you, babe. Just stay safe and take care. Bye."

He gradually returned the handset back in its cradle and walked out of the Morale, Welfare and Recreational (MWR) tent; the cool, soothing breeze cooling him from the harsh Iraqi sun which was just shining in all its undisturbed glory. Temperatures were already reaching in the mid-nineties, and he could feel his sweat slowly trickling along both sides of his head. The weather here was typically brutal, and the little gusts of wind that were coming in from the south was a godsend.

He couldn't help but feel a little bit overly excited about his upcoming trip to England. His request for leave was finally approved by the battalion XO, confirming his request to have a forty-eight hour pass _including_ transit time, which meant that the travel time en route for his trip going to the UK didn't come at the cost of his pass. God, he missed her. He really did. He missed seeing her face while always hearing that damned sultry British-accented voice of hers, and to just hold her in his arms again while they slept; it was a feeling that he surely didn't want to forget anytime soon. In just a little while though, he'd finally see her again. Overall, life was definitely good.

Everywhere around him, people were busy with various mundane and somewhat important-looking tasks. He saw a squad from First Platoon playing basketball at a makeshift hoop, a couple of engineers belonging from the Navy Seabees repairing the base's helipad, a group of tankers from the Third Light Armored relaxing on top of their LAV-25 amphibious reconnaissance vehicle, and last but not the least, he observed his fellow marines that were from various units taking a dip in an inflatable pool; fully-relaxed with their umbrella drinks well in hand. He grinned at the sight of that. There wasn't exactly a dull moment around here in the forward operating base codenamed Liberty.

After trekking for about five minutes, he finally saw the tent his fire team was situated in and entered it, and as soon as he raised the shelter's flaps to admit himself in, Allen, Peterson and Ramirez were locked in a heavy discussion. All of them turned their heads to greet him before they went on.

"—that's not what I meant, dammit." Allen objected, his face clearly exasperated.

"Then what the hell were you trying to say then?" Victor had asked calmly, while eating an MRE that he most likely gotten from the battalion mess hall. Mike still couldn't understand why his best friend liked eating the damned things. They tasted like stale cardboard paper.

"All I'm saying is that if Mike could get leave, I don't see why we can't request a few liberty passes ourselves."

"Because he deserved it," Peterson answered simply, a disassembled M16A4 assault rifle in his hands. Mike saw him gingerly clean the barrel with a cloth filled with a cleaning solvent to remove the grime and dust that had accumulated there, "besides, it's his girl's birthday. So that's that."

"Yeah," Allen sat back down on his cot defeated, shoulders slumped. "I guess."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" He asked his fellow marines while he took a seat on his own cot. Victor answered on the squad's behalf while pointing a somewhat accusatory finger at Allen.

"Genius here wanted to have some shore leave, same as you. But Captain Jenkins wouldn't accept his request." He gave out a hearty chuckle before facing the lance corporal.

"Didn't you have leave on Stuttgart a month ago?"

"Well yeah," Allen responded. "But—"

"And didn't you, like, go to the base's MWR tent six days ago to, and I quote, 'unwind and relax with a little bit of Halo 3'?" Peterson helpfully offered while he started to reassemble the various pieces of his weapon.

"But—" The southerner tried to get a word out, but Victor cut him off.

"Now that you guys mentioned it, I _did_ remember him drinking with a couple of guys from India Company three days ago, saw him stumbling like a jackass on his way back here."

The three of them laughed while Allen looked down on the ground, his shoulders slumping even more as he decided to keep quiet and sulk on his little corner on their tent.

"You're lucky, man." Victor continued on as he talked to Allen. "If India's CO saw you drinking with his men, he'd probably skin you alive." And with that, the marines of fire team Alpha shuddered briefly with a hint of disgust. First Lieutenant Trevor Barkley was a shave-tail looey fresh out of the Marine Corps Officer Candidates School from Quantico. Just after graduation, he had received a quick promotion to his current rank because of his prominent political connections.

The son of a congressman from Virginia, the spoiled, rich bastard was virtually a disease that needed to be purged. He was basically like your typical gung-ho officer, but was heavily mixed with heavy doses of narcissism and a glory-seeking personality. It was obviously clear what that annoying little prick's intentions were. Trevor wanted to serve a single tour of duty here in the most dangerous place on Earth, do something that was heroic while being followed by the cameras, and go back home to brag about his exploits while he followed in daddy's footsteps to become a politician.

Everyone on the battalion hated the guy's guts, but didn't do anything about it for fear of incurring the wrath of his daddy's powerful friends. Hell, even the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Irving, wanted his sorry ass gone. Unfortunately for all of them, he was here to stay.

"What's India Company doing now, anyway?" Victor had asked.

"I heard that they were doing a clean sweep on the northern outskirts of the city," Peterson replied. "search the area for possible insurgents. Knowing that asshole, he'd probably arrest an innocent goat herder and swear that he was leading al-Qaeda." Victor had a good laugh out of that before he crumpled the empty MRE wrapper and threw it on the garbage bin.

"That's gotta suck." Mike said to his men. "I feel sorry for the marines under his command."

"Well, I even heard that a squad from its Second Platoon was planning on fragging his sorry ass. I'd pay good money to see it through."

"Copy that, Vic." He snickered a little bit before putting a lid on it. Even though his best friend was just making a little quip about it, fragging was a grave matter that needed to be taken seriously.

The term originated from the Vietnam War, where highly unpopular officers (the ones that were generally harsh, inept, or overzealous; e.g. Trevor Barkley) were murdered under highly "suspicious" circumstances, which usually involved a live grenade rolled inside one of their tents. At first, they were given a warning about what they did wrong. But if they tend to ignore it, they were quickly blasted to kingdom come. And their deaths were later labeled as an accident by the remainder of the dead officers' respective units.

He really didn't want to think about it all too much. With Kowalski's death having shook him up, he was afraid that a few more deaths like those would bring him to a similar fate, like those dead COs somewhere in the deep tropical jungles of Vietnam.

Mike knew it wasn't his fault, that fate had chosen for it to happen, but it didn't help that he still felt somewhat responsible for the young marine's death. Victor's encouragement yesterday had made him realize that no matter what he did, times like those were usually beyond his control. He just wished he knew how to bear this unfamiliar amount of guilt.

"Mike?" He turned his head around, seeing the face of Victor looking at him.

"Yeah?"

"I said how'd that call with Heather go?" Mike mentally scolded himself. That joke about fragging made him zone out, failing to hear his buddy voicing his question.

"I didn't reach her, man. I just left her a message in her voice mail." Victor just nodded sympathetically, his voice cheerful as ever.

"I'm sure she was busy, bro. You know about those British college chicks in fancy universities, right? All of them always buried in their thesis, term papers, and all that sort of educational crap." His best friend's rather eloquent use of words made his lips crack into a simple smile. Truth be told, he really _did_ expect to hear her sweet voice, and was sort of disappointed that she wasn't there. But again, Victor always had the right thing to say when he felt a little down.

"Speaking of colleges," Peterson began nonchalantly. "didn't you go to Harvard or something like that, sir?"

"Uh, yeah about that…" Mike didn't really want to talk about his educational background, but he answered them anyway for the sake of being polite. "Yes, I did."

"Damn man," His best friend interposed in amazement, "I still don't understand why you didn't want to become an officer. You're a fresh graduate; you have a bunch of kick-ass grades and a magna cum laude and stuff. You could've become one hell of an officer. Maybe even command a company once you're out of Quantico."

"Yeah, what's up with that anyway?" Allen finally came out of his brief sulking period to join in on their conversation, his curiosity to know more about his superior painfully obvious.

"Guys, come on." Mike tried reasoning with them. "Let's talk about something else."

"Like hell we are," Victor cheerfully intervened, not giving him a chance to back out of this particular topic. "I've known you for almost ten months now, and you still haven't told me why you chose to enlist instead of doing what any sane future marine would do."

"No way out, sir." Peterson said to him, a smug grin held in place. Whenever they used to ask about his old life, most of the time he'd find some way to lead them out of it, or that his luck would hold and that they'd be ordered to go someplace and eventually forget about their questions. But now, for the first time since they got here, they were finally pausing to take a breather, and his men decided to take advantage of this opportunity. He sighed, giving up any further attempts at avoiding this sort of conversation.

"Alright, what do you guys want to know?"

All three of them scrambled to talk first at the same time, their voices interspersed with each other while they argued intensely as to whom should go first, and he couldn't make anything out of it as all he heard was a loud, throbbing noise. Victor finally succeeded in shutting them up for his voice to be heard.

"Like I said, why didn't you become an officer?"

"Because I didn't think I was ready to have that responsibility yet, and plus I wanted to learn everything there was to know about becoming a marine. What better place to start than at the bottom."

"You're fuckin' crazy, Mike." Victor said to him with a smirk. "But somehow, I'm perfectly alright with that." Across from his best friend, he saw Peterson slowly raise his right hand, wanting to get his turn to know more about him.

"Yes, Keith, what?"

"What did you major in?" Mike exhaled unsteadily.

"International relations."

"Seriously?" Allen didn't even bother to hide his disbelief. "Isn't that, like, for diplomats and ambassadors and all that shit?"

"Yes, John, it is."

"Why the hell did you pick that, bro?" Victor asked inquisitively, his eyes filled with glee. "Seems like an odd choice for someone wanting to become a marine." Something about this made Mike think that they probably planned this surprise interrogation from the start, but he wasn't exactly sure about it yet. He had to try and redirect their attention somewhere else and get out this mess somehow.

"Guys, seriously, come on." He reasoned with them with an even tone. "Shouldn't you be preparing for next week's sweep into Mosul?" He hoped that by distracting them with their new standing orders, like he always did, he could quell his fire team's new insatiable thirst on his old life with justified reasoning. _Come on, make 'em stop…_

"Already did," Peterson replied without losing a beat, that infuriating smug of his still held in place. "Ammo packs and grenade pouches are filled, tac-radios adjusted to the standard comm frequencies in the upcoming op, and the rest of our equipment cleaned and maintained. Sir."

He honestly did not expect that. And it only confirmed his suspicions even further that they really _had _planned this thing in advance. With a defeated sigh, he told himself that next time he shouldn't underestimate his men again. Now though, he'd just had to get this over with and roll with the punches.

"I'm waiting, Miiiiike." Victor reminded him in a sing-song voice, that mischievous glint in his eyes never wavering.

"Fine." He begrudgingly conceded through gritted teeth. "I wanted to learn more about the world, how it worked, how I could make it a better place by making a difference. And while I was at it, I also wanted to learn new languages and cultures in the places I went to work with, so I could try and understand the people better."

Allen whistled, the brief tune clearly indicating to that of awe and astonishment. Again, Peterson raised his hand.

"What now?"

"What made you decide on becoming a marine?"

The answer was literally at the tip of his tongue, but before he could reply back to Peterson, the flaps on their tent opened. Turning their heads around, Mike saw their platoon commander standing on the opening, fully-dressed and fully-equipped, with a grim and gritty expression etched on his face.

"Gear up, boys." He said to them in a gruff tone. "We got ourselves a situation."

"What is it?" Victor asked, trying to sound casual and confident. But all his best bud had managed to do was to barely keep his voice from breaking. An icy, lead ball began to materialize deep within Mike's gut, which made him suddenly realize that something terrible had just happened. His fears were confirmed a few seconds later when his platoon leader finally replied.

"One of India Company's platoons is cut off, and we are going there to save it."

* * *

The CH-46 Sea Knight was skimming over at a low altitude of about three hundred feet, the impossibly loud roar of the helicopter's tandem rotors were further supplemented by its twin T58 turboshaft engines, which were straining to give the reliable old chopper as much speed as it can make; the aircraft barely even reaching a hundred and eighty knots. Decent conversations were nearly impossible to make inside the spacious compartment, but none were needed.

No one was in a really talking mood after they had received word on what had happened during India Company's latest skirmish. According to the brief transmissions that the marine unit had managed to convey, First Lieutenant Barkley and his company's First Platoon we're surrounded on all sides by insurgent forces, after he had recklessly led his men chasing a decoy that had lured them into a trap. As they overextended their precarious advance, they were ultimately forced to take shelter at a rundown building near the police station, which according to their preliminary reports, were filled with lots and lots of bad guys.

The rest of India's platoons were unable to assist, as hostile forces relentlessly pounded their location with constant infantry assaults and intense mortar fire, pinning them down completely in their own AO. Because of their inability to break the siege, this was where Mike and the rest of his platoon would come in to their rescue.

After landing about five hundred meters behind the rest of India's position, Second and Third Squad would lead the counter-attack to relieve the pressure from the company's battered remnants, while Mike and rest of the First would hunt down the mortars and silence them for good. When that was done, his entire platoon, excluding his squad, would lead the eventual rescue to aid Barkley's lost platoon.

It was a good plan, and all they needed to do now was go through their assigned tasks and pray to God that they'd succeed.

Not everyone on this impromptu mission was happy, and with good reason. The marines aboard chopper Foxtrot 6-4 all knew that because of Barkley's incompetence, he had endangered an entire company of fellow soldiers, and because of it, they were in the process of being overrun. In the Corps, jeopardizing fellow marines' lives is always, and _will always_ be a bad call. And people who made bad calls deserved to be punished, one way or another.

And if all of this went exactly to plan, Mike guessed that First Lieutenant Trevor Barkley would probably be court-martialed, charged with military incompetence, and sentenced to a few decades stay at the Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth. And justice would righteously be served.

"_Ten seconds to LZ._" the pilot's voice was broadcasted in the intercom, and Mike could feel the chopper finally coming to a halt.

"Stand up!" His platoon commander bellowed near the rear hatch, and all of them followed his order without question. "First Squad, you go first. Find the mortars and blow 'em up. Second and Third, on me and spread out once we clear the LZ. Oo-rah?"

"Oo-rah!" Everyone yelled. He could hear a soft whine as the landing gear below expanded, followed by feeling a slight thump as they made contact towards the ground. The rear hatch slowly opened, and dust from the rotor wash immediately bombarded everyone eyes and nasal passages.

"Go, go, go!"

Mike, and his fellow marines that made the entirety of First Squad, quickly disembarked from the chopper, running to about ten meters before they spread out, crouching and sweeping their weapons in the area to provide cover for the rest of the platoon, who were already coming out of the transport. One by one, everyone exited the Sea Knight until it was finally clear, with the rear hatches already starting to close, but not before seeing the helicopter's crew chief giving them a thumbs-up when it closed all the way and the bird started taking off.

"Come on," He ordered his fellow marines to follow him as they vacated the landing zone, seeing the rest of the platoon moving up ahead while he and his men went left. Since that firefight yesterday, he had been temporarily assigned as First Squad's leader until they could find a replacement; which was a relief, because he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of leading more than three men again, after what had happened with Kowalski.

He ordered Peterson to move forward as lead scout, while the rest of them followed close behind, each of them separated two meters apart to provide proper spacing. The last thing he needed was for them to be wiped out by a single grenade if they all bunched up together. He knew being overly paranoid was overkill, but in war, it was better safe than sorry.

Sporadic gunfire was clearly heard, the quick bursts of assorted rifle fire followed by the occasional thunder of a mortar round going off. They had to find those mortars fast, before they inflict a lot of casualties to India and the rest of Third Platoon. The squad slowly made its way towards an alley, trying to avoid the main roads as possible to prevent themselves from being spotted.

Mike scanned the area they were in with his rifle, making sure that the houses between the alley they were all walking in was really clear of enemy hostiles. There wasn't really much cover in here, besides a few cardboard boxes and decaying crates that were lying around; none of which were adequate enough to stop a high-velocity rifle round.

Ahead, Peterson suddenly raised a closed fist and stopped walking, then waved his hand down repeatedly to signal all of them to get low. Mike slowly made his way towards the lead scout, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"What is it?" Mike whispered softly when he arrived next to the private.

"I hear vehicles approaching, sir." Peterson replied, motioning with his rifle up ahead, seeing the alley connected towards a larger road. Mike strained his ears to pick up any noises besides gunfire and explosions. A few seconds later, he could make out the telltale sounds of a vehicle coming in fast, accompanied by its tires screeching as it sped recklessly along the badly paved road.

Looking over his shoulder, he signaled Allen to come near him, who was unhurriedly walking to go forward, weapon in hand. If ever they were somehow spotted, the southerner's M249 SAW would make short work out of those things if push came to shove. But he was hoping it wouldn't come to that, and if they weren't even spotted at all, the better.

He could hear the vehicle approaching them now, the sound of its stressed engine reverberating all around him. As a precaution, Mike turned the safety off his M4 carbine and pulled the charging handle, chambering a round that was ready to fire in a pull of a trigger.

Just ten meters ahead of the squad, he finally caught a glimpse of the vehicle as its silhouette sped its way forward, followed by another. They were pick-up trucks modified with hardened bumpers in the front and .50 caliber heavy machine guns strapped behind its open back.

_Technicals. Shit._

"Where do you think they're headed?" Allen softly spoke to him, his weapon already set up with its bipod on top of an old shipping crate.

"Good question." Mike replied, grabbing his tac-radio and keying the transmit button. "Lima Three, this is Lima Three-One. Do you read, over?"

"_Roger Three-One,_" His platoon leader responded, the sounds of rapid weapons fire and orders being shouted clearly evident on the comms, "_read you lima charlie. Over._"

"Lima Three, be advised I got two technicals possibly barreling down towards your position, and are heavily armed with fifty cal MGs, over."

"_Understood, Three-One. Thanks for the intel. Out._" He quickly returned his tac-radio and motioned for them to move on up ahead, with Peterson still taking the lead.

"We gotta find those mortars," He said through his squad as they walked. "any ideas on how?"

"Well, we could try going somewhere with high elevation." Taylor, a marine from what was left of fire team Bravo, suggested to him. "put a man in there to see where the rounds are coming from, then get a fix on its position."

"That's not half-bad," Mike commented as they reached the end of the alley opening up towards the rest of the main road, looking at both ways of the thoroughfare with his red dot sight scanning the area. "thanks for volunteering, Mister Taylor."

"Okay. Wait…what?" Taylor did a double take as he looked at him back with his eyes laced in disbelief. "You're kidding me, right?"

"It's your plan, bro." Victor added with a toothy grin, "And you're definitely the man for the job."

"It's because I'm black, isn't it?" Victor snickered for a bit while Mike placed a hand on his forehead in a not-so-subtle face palm. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

"No, George. It's not because you're black," He assured the guy with a sigh, "you'll be with Frank along the way. Try and find them while he watches your back." Bravo's fire team leader gave him a cold hard stare and a nod. Painfully obvious that the guy still thinks he was responsible for Kowalski's death, but not in any way trying to compromise their mission. At least he was being professional about the whole thing.

"Fine," Taylor conceded. "you owe me one, Mike."

"Pick a building, then." Mike ordered. "We'll escort you there, and once you're situated, find where those mortars and relay 'em back to me. Got it?"

"Right. What about…that one?" Taylor pointed out a slim, eight story tower that was about two hundred meters away to their west.

"Alright, it's settled. Peterson, you're still on point. Let's move."

They turned right and walked along the road's sidewalks, trying to hug the wooden fence while they scanned their respective weapons on the other side of the street, looking for anything that threatened them with bodily harm. Wrecked vehicles and trash littered the middle of the lane, and the entire area was basically empty, like an old ghost town during the days where cowboys and duels still reigned supreme.

Mike saw a woman observing them from a window who was a few meters away from them, just staring at him and his men before she decided to close the shutters with a loud crack. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Allen was nervously trailing his SAW left and right, his head snapping to even the tiniest sounds. He placed a calming shoulder on the southerner and the man flinched, his muscles becoming extremely tense.

"John, seriously." He said with a soothing tone. "Relax. Just breathe, man."

"Okay." He saw the lance corporal trying to calm himself down with great effort, but downright failed in the process.

"I said breathe, not fucking hyperventilate. Deep breaths, alright?"

He continued on walking just behind Peterson while he heard his subordinate steadying his wild breathing. At least it was somewhat acceptable. The last thing he needed was a jumpy, southerner with a really itchy trigger-finger.

A couple of explosions went off in the distance, again reminding him that those miniature artillery pieces needed to be taken out immediately. Glancing at his chronometer, he could see that it had already been fifteen minutes past since they disembarked from the chopper. Which was weird though, since he honestly though an hour had already passed.

So far, the rest of the platoon seemed alright since they weren't transmitting any distressing news back on the command freq. Everything must've been going to plan, except on his own end that is. They needed to finish this sweep right now.

Again, Peterson signaled for them to halt and stay low after having walked through for about ten more minutes. Automatically going through the private's side, Mike saw his subordinate pointing out to something up ahead in the direction of the tower they were going. He couldn't make out it clearly by just using his eyes, so he grabbed the binoculars on his pouch situated on the small of his back and peered with the low-power eye piece.

"Looks like…" He observed out loud, relaying his sightings back to the squad, "three, five…eight men at the base of the tower. Assorted small arms…wait; I got an RPG in the sixth story window, far right."

Victor slowly walked beside him, and he handed the binoculars to him while his best friend confirmed his findings.

"Yep," The guy concluded. "definitely an RPG-7. Hellooo, what do we have here?"

"What is it?" Mike asked.

"I got another guy on top of the tower with an SVD providing overwatch."

"Shit, this complicates things." Victor handed him back the ocular eye piece and summoned the rest of the squad to gather near him with a low whistle.

"What's the plan here, sir?" Taylor asked when they finally clustered together around him.

"Okay, here's how we're going to do it. Allen, stay right behind us. Provide us a base of fire with the SAW and just keep pouring rounds on 'em 'til we push through. If you're going to fire that first burst, aim it at the RPG guy first then take it from there."

"Yes sir." The lance corporal gave him a nod while he racked the bolt on his heavy weapon.

"Taylor, Frank, you'll go far left and creep your way towards their position. Once you're in range, use those M67's and blow 'em straight to hell."

"You got it." Taylor answered for the both of them while he inserted a fresh clip into his rifle.

"Peterson, take out that sniper on the rooftop. Once you take him out, you, Victor and me will head straight into the middle. Hard and fast. 'Cause as much ruckus as we can to take the heat off Allen and the flankers. Okay?"

"Sir."

"Alright, gentlemen, let's make this count. Weapons and ammo check." The various sounds of assault rifles being chambered, weapon sights getting readjusted, radios links being set and bets being made were clearly audible in his ears. Any moment now, they'll engage the enemy and try to take this potential observation point away from them. He muttered a quick prayer to God; telling the Almighty to please protect them as they attacked the hostile insurgents' positions and…well, kill them. He thought it was practically ridiculous to ask the Lord His mighty blessings in killing his fellow men, but Mike figured that the Big Guy upstairs would surely understand his predicament. This was war after all, and man had been doing it since the day they were created.

The tower was just about seventy meters away, and the squad cautiously went another twenty to have a clear view on what they were about to assault. Allen was setting up his bipod on an old concrete road block, while Peterson made last-minute adjustments to his M16A4 assault rifle's ACOG scope. On their left, he ordered Taylor and Frank to proceed further and make their way undetected while Mike ejected the mag in his rifle and returned it after a brief check with the rounds inside.

"You ready, Peterson?"

"Say the word, sir." The private was now aiming his rifle at his designated target, eye glued to his scope.

"Victor? Allen?"

"We're ready, sir." Victor replied for himself and the southerner, his best friend's own weapon ready.

"Okay, on three…" He took a deep breath, tightly gripped his rifle, and exhaled. "Three!"

Peterson's rifle cracked out a single shot out, while Allen's SAW let loose a thunderous burst. The sniper in the roof fell down with a head shot while the RPG wielder was nowhere in sight, the guy's blood splattered along the window pane he was in earlier.

"Let's go!" He jumped over from the concrete road block and advanced all the way towards the direction of the tower, with Peterson and Victor on his tail. Allen proceeded to finally let loose with his weapon on full-auto, springing the insurgent defenders into action as they opened up on him and his men with their own weapons.

Rounds whizz by overhead, breaking the sound barrier in a couple of cracks in the air, which were completely perceptible. Bursts of enemy rifle fire landed a few rounds that had been exploding all around his feet, forcing him into cover on an abandoned and gutted out vehicle, while Peterson and Victor were beside him a few feet away at a destroyed wall.

The insurgents were quickly shouting out terse orders in Arabic, adding more noise to the echoes of the battlefield. Mike slowly rose from cover and spotted a masked gunman hosing his rifle at Peterson's direction. He raised his rifle, carefully aimed the red dot sight on the guy's center mass, and let loose with a couple of rounds.

The guy was thrown back by the rounds' sudden impact, his chest bursting out with dark red liquid as he went down on his back, dead. That's one.

Another insurgent, this one wearing a red and white _keffiyeh_ traditional headdress, moved forward with a quick sprint, opening fire with his AKM on full-auto as he did so. He went to cover as the guy's bullets impacted a bit too dangerously close for his liking.

"Allahu akbaaaar!" He peeked a bit on the right side of his cover, seeing the run-and-gun insurgent screaming his lungs out as he ran towards him. Mike came out on the right edge of the car he used as cover and opened fire. A few of the SS109 sixty-two grain, full metal jacket bullets piercing through the crazed militant's leg as he went down in mid-stride.

Victor put him out of his misery with a single rifle shot in the head, just right between the eyes. Blood, brain matter, and parts of a shattered skull came out in the back of the guy's cranium, with the gore clearly visible for the entire world to see. That's two.

Three enemy footmobiles proceeded to follow on their recently dead friend's example by firing their vintage weapons and advancing. Several rounds hit the area in the car where his head was situated, and the extreme friction after striking with the car's burnt out metallic shell caused all of it to ignite into a bunch of fiery orange sparks. Again, he went under, sitting down on the ground with his back pressed against the side of the destroyed car.

His heart rate was completely out of control now, and he could feel the pulsing organ just trying to surge out of his chest, even feeling its beats rumbling on the edge of his ears. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, with his breaths short and fast. Adrenaline was quickly pouring into his veins, and his senses were improved tenfold. He could feel his own skin becoming hypersensitive, as the slightest breeze felt like that of a whirling tornado. Rising out of cover, he became acutely aware that his vision was sharper than ever, surprised that he could even make out even the minutest detail surrounding him.

Everything around Mike slowed down as his tunnel vision kicked in, focusing only at the approaching targets that were moving as if they were in slow motion. As quickly as he can, he brought his carbine up and fired, not even bothering to use the built-in sight. The first one collapsed with a burst to the abdomen, the second got hit in the head as a cloud of red exited the base of his skull, and the third still kept on coming. He pulled on his trigger again. But nothing happened. He kept on pulling three times, hearing only a clicking sound as the firing pin only impacted on empty air.

_Shit, I'm out of ammo!_

Reloading at this moment was too slow, so he let go of his primary weapon, letting the carbine's sling hold the weapon in place, as he grabbed for his sidearm strapped to a holster in the center of his vest. The AK the insurgent used still sputtered out tons of lead, and all around he could see the bullets were hitting everywhere _but _him. This guy didn't have a chance in hell.

He lined up his sidearm, an M9A1 Beretta, on the target and did a perfectly executed Mozambique Drill. Double tap to the chest, and a single round to the head. Guy dropped dead in his tracks like a marionette with its strings cut.

He vaulted off on the hood of the car and advanced another ten meters, the tower becoming dangerously close as the panicked screams of the enemy became more noticeable now. He slid off in his knees as he neared another waist-high road block, the kneepads he wore screeching from the effort.

Behind him, he saw both Peterson and Victor catch up on his as well, with the former moving up further ahead and the latter taking a spot on an electrical post just next to him.

"Hey man," The private just casually greeted as if they weren't in the middle of a firefight. "Saw that three-man takedown you did, I can't believe you capped three of 'em in less than four seconds with two different weapons." Mike just looked at him incredulously, like the guy was telling him that lightning was already starting to come out of his ass.

"You're shitting me, right?" He yelled over at the sounds of heavy gunfire. But Victor just shook his head.

"Three targets, two of them with an M4 and the last one with a Beretta in almost four seconds. You're a fucking pro, man." He laughed out loud while he burst fired his M16A4 from the hip, suppressing a group of insurgents that just came from the building. "They got more guys inside, Mike. I think we're dealing with a fucking platoon, here."

"Where the hell is Taylor and Frank?"

"I don't know, I guess they're just waiting to make a dramatic entrance or something. It's all about style nowadays." He smiled at Victor's pathetic attempt at humor.

"I'm calling them on comms, watch my ass." He grabbed his radio while Victor kept on pouring more shots downrange. "Frank, it's Collins. Where the fuck are you?"

There wasn't anything other than static on the line, and it made him nervous. _Where the hell are they, godddamn it!_

"Frank, come in damn it! Are you in position yet?" Again, there was nothing to be heard, and he began to panic. If both Taylor and Frank were already neutralized, then it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke out from Allen's suppressive fire, and charge at them with everything they got if what Victor said was correct; them facing a platoon instead of ten men.

"_Three-One, this is Lima Three._" His radio suddenly flared in his hands, surprising him out of his brief stupor. "_Sit-rep, over._"

"We're a bit busy right now, el-tee." He breathed through his tac-radio, peering over the edge of the road block he used as a shelter to take a look on the enemy's positions. "How's everything on your end?"

"_We've secured what's left of India Company and have rescued Barkley's platoon. Thanks for taking out those mortars, Three-One._"

His brows creased in confusion. What the hell was his platoon leader talking about? They don't even know where the damn things are yet, but if they thought that the mortars were gone, did that mean someone else took them out already?

His answer came a few seconds later, when a low whistling sound started to hover in the air for a few moments, before it became louder and clearer until an explosion went off that was just three fucking meters in front of him; where rubble and some small debris came flying about. He immediate dove for cover.

"Holy shit!" Victor cursed. "They're fucking targeting us with those fucking mortars!" Another mortar round made landfall and exploded two meters to the right of where his best friend stood, the private immediately following his superior's example by hugging the dirt.

"Goddamn it!" Mike swore loudly as he keyed his radio. "Lima Three, the mortars are changing targets. I repeat, they're fucking shooting at us!" To emphasize his point, two mortar shells went off behind just a couple more meters away, blasting the car he used for cover earlier into smaller pieces, showering everyone with small bits of the wreckage.

"_What, but I thought you guys…?_"

"Sir, we're breaking contact. I say again, we're falling back." Another barrage of mortar round began raining down on their heads, and Mike placed a hand on top of his helmet as he burrowed deeper into his little piece of cover.

"_Three-One, standby. I'll try to get you some fire support._"

He could hear a few rifle bursts being traded by the enemy, and a few seconds later, Peterson emerged out of nowhere, diving unspectacularly on the ground he shared with Victor. He saw his other subordinate panting, clearly out of breath with a wound soaking up his left arm.

"What the hell happened to you?" Victor asked.

"They tried to outflank me," Peterson replied tiredly. "I saw 'em before they made the jump on me and hosed them down. I had to get out of my spot, and they shot me as I ran. I think we're dealing with an enemy platoon here instead of a single squad."

"No shit, Sherlock."

This wasn't supposed to happen, and now they were trapped in a deadly crossfire while they were bracketed with enemy mortars. And speaking of which, their bombardment was still in effect, and they were getting accurate with each drop of their explosive shells. A single HE round blasted what was left of the road block Mike and the rest of the guys used for cover, pouring them with chunks of concrete and dust.

That particular round went off just a bit too close, and he could feel his ears ringing. Everything around him was muted, and the only thing he heard was the sound of his respiration and his own heart beating.

He saw both of his men talking as they sprawled on the ground alongside him, but he absolutely couldn't hear a thing. Victor faced him, starting to mouth off a few words that he still couldn't hear. He tried talking to his friend back, but was surprised that he also couldn't hear his own damn voice. _What the hell is this?_

For a few more seconds, he had to endure the intensified ringing in his ears before it slowly started to subside, finally hearing some snippets of Victor's voice from beyond the din of battle.

_We're…the…quarters….ike…he…me?_

He shook his head and waited for a bit more before his hearing finally came back, and he was once again rewarded with the same sounds of rapid gunfire, explosive mortar shells, and Victor screaming in his voice.

"I said, we're in their fucking headquarters!"

"What?" Mike asked, unaware of what his friend was trying to explain to him earlier.

"I think we found their base of operations for this city," Victor explained again. "which explains the heavy defenses and that fortified structure."

"We need to get out of here, sir." Peterson faced him, his usually stoic persona already starting to break due to the mortar shelling. "We're dead if we stay here."

"_Three-One,_" Mike radio came to life again, the distinct, patchy voice of their platoon leader starting to be heard. "_I managed to convince a battery of Army howitzers to give you some indirect fire support. Pass me the coordinates while I relay them to the big guns, over._"

He wordlessly grabbed the map filled with grid coordinates that he had taken from his dead squad leader, and spread it hurriedly across Victor's shoulder. Another round went off, and all three of them winced, the loud detonation and debris already towering them dangerously close to the breaking point. He tried to look around, hoping to see any familiar reference points to which he could base his current location on. He did it for a few more seconds, trying his best to look for _anything_ that was remotely comparable to the positions listed in the map. Seeing none, he cursed out loud.

"You know, I could really use that artillery strike right about now!" Victor grumbled, struggling to move about in a tight, clustered space surrounded by him and Peterson.

"I can't find any RPs in this fucking place!" He shot back angrily at his best friend, not bothering to hide his frustration.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Peterson finally snapped as his reserved exterior collapsed. "So what you're telling us, is that we're going to die because we _literally _got lost? Goddamn it!"

"Oh, fuck it!" Mike keyed his tac-radio with a deadly grip. Having no other alternatives left, he could only think of just one other solution that could remote save them. If they could even survive it. "Lima Three, drop your rounds all around my transmission. I repeat, fire mission _extremely _danger fucking close. Tell those Army pukes to give those guns everything she's got!"

"_Three-One, be advised that—_"

"Send it right _noooow_!" In a fit of rage, Mike threw his tac-radio as hard as he could on the place where the abandoned car was, now a smoldering crater thanks to the insurgent's newfound artillery pieces in the form of those damned mortars.

He exhaled, finally admitting to himself that he had failed as a leader, and that he had condemned the rest of his squad to his failures. He might as well join Trevor Barkley in the Corps' list of disastrous leaders ever to have failed in the history of failing. He was going to die. The realization finally sunk in like a person stuck in quick sand. In just a few short moments, those huge caliber 155mm high-explosive rounds would come crashing down on him and vaporize his sorry ass.

"Damn it." He softly cursed, closing his eyes and lying back on the cold, hard ground.

"Well," He heard Victor's voice say in calm acceptance. "we had a good run boys. It's been one hell of an honor."

"Just so you know," Peterson's voice opened up, taking a similar tone from his best friend, "if ever I'm going to end up in hell, I'm blaming both of you."

He didn't say anything to them as he let his thoughts wander one last time towards Heather. He finally had the chance to go see her in just two days' time. Now though, just thinking about how he wasn't going to see her again, scared him a lot more than dying. Opening his eyes, he imagined himself being on England right about now. Just getting off of that plane from Heathrow, flowers in hand, while he took a cab towards her dorm on UCL, as those weird black taxis takes him to her. He tried picturing what her reaction would be if she saw him right out of her doorstep, just standing there with a huge grin on his face after travelling thousands of miles just to go see her.

He didn't have a chance to finish that particular line of thought, as the United States Army's own barrage of artillery shells finally landed throughout the entire area, bathing everything inside of it in a sea of deadly flames.

* * *

**Don't forget to tell me what you think. :)**

**-Rookie571**


	5. Awakening

"_You are coming back to me, right?" Her beautiful green eyes sparkled at him, her face's soft features pleading. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. It pained him that he was leaving her at a time like this; to do his duty at what was probably the most dangerous place on Earth, thousands of miles away. But he couldn't back away from it now, not when he had already committed himself to seeing this thing through. Grabbing her hands, his lips parted into a small smile._

"_Of course I am babe. Why wouldn't I be?" _

"_It's just that…if anything happened to you, I…"_

"_Heather, come on." He assured her with a gentle, soothing tone. "I promise I'll come back, okay?" She shifted her gaze away, just looking at the ground for a few seconds before he looked into his eyes, with tears building up._

"**Mike!"**

"_You promise?" She asked him, her voice soft and sweet._

"**Come on, sir! Wake up!"**

"_I promise." He assured her with a cheerful note. "Besides, I already found something to come back to, so you've got nothing to worry about." He watched as Heather's cheeks flushed as she looked away from him again, this time with a contented smile._

"_Flattery will get you anywhere these days."_

"**Corpsman! Get me a fucking corpsman here!"**

"_With that posh British accent of yours, I'd practically do back flips at your say so." She laughed, that melodic sound quickly filling his ears with delight._

"_Hey Mike!" Looking over his shoulder, he saw Victor waving at him. "Come on, man. The el-tee's looking for us."_

"_Well, I guess it's time for me to go, then." He looked at her with his own blue-eyed gaze, his face turning serious. "Just wait for me, okay? I know it's asking a lot, and you probably think this is crazy, but…please, just hang on for a little while. I swear to God I'll come back." _

"_Okay, I will." She said to him, her expression completely resolute._

"**He's over here, come on. Help me out."**

_And with that, he leaned towards her, his lips capturing hers in a passionate, toe curling kiss. He memorized her sweet, intoxicating scent and the feel of her soft, velvet-like skin; knowing that it'll probably be a long time before he could ever see her again. They pulled apart a few moments later, panting due to lack of air. _

"_Just come back to me, Michael."_

* * *

He immediately gasped as he rose up, the dust-filled air quickly entering his lungs. The sudden influx of diluted oxygen instantly making him cough out several times before he finally stopped. His vision was a bit blurry, but it was slowly recovering. It took a little while before he finally could see the familiar face of Lance Corporal Allen, just a few inches ahead of him. The southerner gave him a toothy grin.

"He's alright," Allen informed towards someone Mike couldn't see. "let's get this rubble off of him."

Mike tried moving his legs, but for some reason they were trapped with something heavy. Looking down, he saw a medium-sized rock imbedded in there, not having any clue as to where the damned thing had come from and when. His face, particularly somewhere near the bridge of his nose, felt surprisingly slick with something. Moving a hand there, it came back with a surprisingly sizeable streak of blood. His brows creased.

He couldn't recall being injured when he led the attack here, and for some reason he couldn't feel the pain from the wound, which was odd enough in itself. He saw Allen and another marine moving the rock away from him, their faces locked in concentration as they exerted themselves until the thing finally rolled over to side.

The other marine quickly went beside him, opening up his medical kit as the guy proceeded to grab the things he needed. Allen stood just behind the man, his eyes looking at Mike like he was on the verge of dying.

"He gonna be alright, doc?" The lance corporal had asked.

"Yeah," The marine, who he deduced was a corpsman, replied; busying himself by cleaning up the injury that was somewhere in Mike's nose. "it's just a graze, nothing major."

He was alive, he was really friggin' alive. He thought that he'd really be a goner when those heavy arty shells rained hell all around him. He fairly assumed that he wasn't going to see the light of day ever again, he just hoped that Victor would fare better and—

His muscles tensed, his lips quivered while his skin suddenly became pale. The others! The corpsman noticed Mike's apparent discomfort, alarm quickly carved on his own face.

"You okay? Damn, I think he's going into shock—"

"Where's the rest of the squad?" He softy inquired to both of them, his panicked eyes looking to both of them.

_Dear God, please let them be safe._ Allen just gave him a confused look before it turned to that of recognition, giving him a dismissive wave.

"They're fine; we found them first before we saw you." The southerner said to him offhandedly. "Victor's got a nasty wound on his leg, Peterson was conscious for a minute before he passed out, while Taylor and Frank got shot up. The docs say they were fine though, so no worries."

He exhaled a great sigh of relief, the feeling quickly overwhelming his tattered senses. He didn't need any more deaths on his conscience. Looking around past the two of them, he saw his fellow marines moving forward and securing the area, assisted with a UH-1 Huey helicopter hovering overhead, providing them with a protective overwatch that scanned for more incoming threats. Even though the war was from over, he felt completely safe, just looking at that age-old chopper guarding them from the air.

"Alright, I'm done." The corpsman said. "Let's get him up." Allen offered him a hand, which Mike immediately took as the lance corporal pulled him up his feet. The other marine offered to help him walk, but he declined. His legs throbbed with pain for a bit, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

As he started to walk forward, Mike looked back on the building he was supposed to capture one last time. The eight-story tower, which once stood tall and was fortified by a lot crazed gunmen, now a smoldering wreck as it collapsed sideways towards the east; accompanied by the corpses of its now-dead defenders that were liberally strewn about.

"Well," Allen's voice rattled him out of his gaze. "at least you have one helluva story to tell to your girl once you get to England." Mike just laughed emphatically on that statement.

"I'm not planning on giving her a nightmare if I plan on getting laid." Both the southerner and corpsman chuckled as they walked towards a waiting M996 Humvee Ambulance.

* * *

"Jesus," Victor said a few hours later, sitting upright on his bed inside FOB Liberty's aid station. "I never thought I'd be happy to see both of your ugly faces again."

"Yeah, well, I can't believe we got our asses saved. By the Army no less," Peterson answered back in disbelief from his own bed across, with a sling on his arm. "I suppose we owe 'em a few beers."

"That's already been taken care of." Mike said to both of them, sitting on his chair that was positioned in between his two friends. After he had arrived on the base, the first thing he did was pay the battalion quartermaster a shitload of money to order a few dozen boxes of Budweiser beer, to which he sent anonymously towards the Army battery that had undoubtedly saved their lives. He owed them a lot, and it was a small price to pay after they did the impossible and rescued everyone on his squad.

"Where's Taylor and Frank?" Peterson asked.

"They're being shipped home, medical discharge. They got banged-up pretty bad, but they'll live."

"Lucky bastards." Victor interjected with a faux serious expression. "Oh well, at least there's more ragheads for us to kill.

"No shit." Mike agreed, just happy with the fact all of them got out of that clusterfuck in one piece. Hell, he still couldn't believe that he was breathing and walking right now instead of being sent home in a body bag.

"Hey guys," Peterson began, with a somber expression on his face. "I know this is corny and all, but I gotta ask. Did your lives flash right before your eyes when you thought we were all going to die?"

The private did bring out a good point. But he hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing that kind of flashback into time. All of his thoughts drifted towards the one thing that mattered to him the most at that time, and he smiled. Pretty soon, he was going to hop on a plane, travel two and half thousand miles and meet her.

"I don't know, maybe." Victor answered. "When I thought I was a goner, I promised myself that I wouldn't screw around anymore. Find a nice girl, marry her, have lots and _lots_ of kids. Hopefully she'll make an honest man out of me." Mike snickered for a bit before he was on the receiving end of his best friend's gaze.

"What?"

"You don't think I'm serious about this?"

"Come on, Vic. This is you we're talking about," Mike reasoned in an even tone, trying to suppress any more bouts of laughter. "when was the last time you met a woman that wasn't just for mind-blowing sex?" The man stopped to think.

When it came to his friend's love life, Victor wasn't exactly the most touchy-feely kind of guy. If ever he met someone to his liking (which usually involved someone who had a great ass and pair of large headlights), they usually just mess around for a bit before they break things off amicably. Friends with benefits, his best bud had called it. Just have a few rounds of meaningless casual sex before he got bored and moved on to the next one.

So just hearing about Victor's declaration about trying to follow his own example is just nothing short of miraculous. He couldn't help but be skeptical about the whole thing.

"Well yeah," Victor reacted. "but after what happened, I figured that life's too damned short, you know? So I'll find myself a nice girl who's going to make me happy as a fucking clam."

"Does she need to be hot?"

"Not really, no."

"I call bullshit." Mike quickly said without missing a beat, evoking a laugh from Peterson.

"Seriously man, I just…I wanna find someone who's willing to put up with my stupid shit and live happily ever after." Just hearing the man's tone made Mike realize he was dead serious about the whole thing. The near-death experience earlier must've rattled him more than he thought. But then again, it scared the living hell out of all of them.

"If you're fucking serious about this—"

"I am bro."

"—then I'm proud of ya, Vic." He told his best friend, and he absolutely meant it. He wasn't exactly supportive of his fellow marine's earlier transgressions when it came to women, but at least he was on the right side this time, same as him. And for that, he couldn't be any more proud.

"What about you, Keith?" Victor asked, facing the other private. "Got any life-changing crap you wanna share with us?" Peterson just smirked before answering.

"I always wanted to be an archaeologist when I was a kid," The guy just smiled, rearing his head back on a pillow. "discover ancient cities, solve a shitload of mysteries, that kind of thing, man. Basically like Indiana Jones, minus the fedora and the whip."

"What's stopping ya?" Mike questioned, utterly curious on hearing about his subordinate's dream.

"I wanted to go to Cambridge, but the recession had hit last year, and my parents couldn't afford to send me there anymore."

"That's sucks, man." Victor said to him in a considerate tone.

"I know," Peterson nodded in thanks, but went on, "anyways, you were right Vic. Life is too short. So after my next tour is finished, I'm going to quit the Marines with the money I'll soon save up and head to England. Hopefully I'll get a degree if I play my cards right."

"Knowing you, I wouldn't worry about that Keith." Mike told him. "I'm sure you'll get that fancy degree, and hopefully you wouldn't forget about us once you get famous." Peterson just gave out an enthusiastic chuckle.

"This coming from the guy who graduated from Harvard."

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you are." Victor butts in on the conversation. "Anyway, you ready for your trip?"

"Sure am." He happily replied. "I already packed my clothes and everything before I came here." His best friend just shook his head and gave him a grin.

"Of course you did, just remember to buy me a souvenir when you get there."

"Yeah, yeah."


	6. London Calling

The weather here in London was definitely a whole lot different from what he had experienced in Iraq. The light overcast that was hanging above everyone's heads was just content on staying there, blanketing the skies with a dull gray atmosphere. With the temperatures just in the mid-seventies and holding steady, it made him finally realize that this city was certainly a _lot _more different from where he'd been six hours ago.

He finally made it. It took a long and arduous wait, but he was finally here. Having just exited Heathrow Airport, Mike shouldered the single duffel bag that he brought and went near the taxi stands that was littering outside the airport terminal.

The trip that brought him towards this sprawling metropolis was a brief and uneventful flight, yet weirdly enough, he was glad that it was. For just two brief days here, there were no heavy firefights in which he was going to be in, no crazed militants charging at him with guns blazing, or any near-death encounters that was just waiting around the corner.

For the first time in a really, _really _long time, he was just back to being a civilian again; even if it was just for a short while. Wearing a black leather jacket, white shirt, and jeans that went along with the black leather shoes he wore, it just felt a bit strange being out of his fatigues or combat boots. Like, he felt out of place just trying to reconnect with society if he didn't wear his familiar, worn out BDUs. But then again, he wasn't complaining about it. After all this was done, he was going to wear it anyway when he'd return from his leave.

During his latest action three days ago, he'd received a wound that traced horizontally along the bridge of his nose, caused by a stray metal fragment originating from the shells the Army had used during their unexpected and timely rescue. It ached every now and then, but it eventually subsided after a few hours of minor throbbing. It was small compared to a permanent death which he narrowly avoided. He just hoped Heather would recognize him if she saw him with this damned thing on his face. Besides, if what Victor had said to him was true, about the fact that woman found scars extremely sexy, he'd be lucky later on. If not, well, he'd repay his best friend's deception with a good 'ole smack on the back of his head.

A black, vintage-looking taxi pulled over right in front of him, and he quickly went inside to avoid causing traffic to other people looking for a ride.

"Where to, sir?" The driver, a black guy with an English accent, asked of him once he was already seated. Mike opened his mouth to try and say something, and was surprised that nothing came out, his jaw just wide open and frozen in place. He had waited for this moment for a long time, yet he absolutely had no idea on where to go next.

The cabbie expertly drove his cab out of the taxi lane, slowly merging with the rest of the traffic as the vehicle quickly put some distance between them and the huge airport.

"Okay, let me just rephrase that question again," the English black guy told him with a patient voice, obviously accustomed to helping out idiots like him for not thinking clearly that far ahead. "where would you like to go, sir?"

"Uh…the UCL in Bloomsbury?" Mike hesitantly replied, not exactly sure of himself as the answer he gave to the guy came out like a question. In front of him, the driver just laughed good-naturedly.

"You aren't exactly from around here, are you Yank?"

"Not really, no." He embarrassingly looked down on the carpeted floor. It was completely and utterly humiliating, looking like an ass in front of this Brit because he didn't have the spare brain cells to plan this trip in the first place.

"Don't worry about it, sir. How about this then, what is she majoring in?" Mike's brows furrowed in confusion. _Where was the guy going with this? And more importantly, how did he know I was here to visit a girl? _The Brit just chuckled, his gaze watching at the rear-view mirror to look at him. "Let's just say, you're not the first American who's got no idea where to go, visiting their college girlfriends and all that."

"Oh, okay." He lamely replied. He didn't really have much of a choice, and he was already grateful that this guy didn't make fun of him for being such an idiot. In the end, what was he going to lose? "She's majoring in political science."

"Really? Well, that's a great course, isn't it?" The driver cheerfully replied while he overtook a lumbering bus that was just ahead of them.

"Yeah, it is." Mike was already starting to like this guy. If all taxi drivers back home were as pleasant as him then the people would practically tip them more.

"Alright then, so she's a pol-sci major. That means she's somewhere in the main campus at Gower Street, which means I'll have to take the A40 to get there. You don't mind do you? Traffic's a bit nasty this time of day, and it'll be about forty minutes to get there."

"Not at all, man." He happily replied. Yep, this guy definitely deserves a huge tip. Not only did he not make fun of him for not knowing where to go, but he practically solved all of his problems in less than five minutes.

He leaned his head back, the leather seat unquestionable comfortable as he just sat there and relaxed. It still hasn't sunk in yet, in just a teeny tiny bit, he was going to see her. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize her soft, plump lips that were kissing his passionately after seeing him right in front of her, her favorite roses well in hand. God, he couldn't wait to hold her in his arms again, just voraciously inhaling that inebriating scent of hers, which was an unusual combination of her expensive perfume and the pomegranate shampoo she usually liked to use.

_Just come back to me, Michael. _And he finally did. Nine, agonizing months later

"So," The driver drawled, snapping him out of his thoughts. "you just came from over there, right?" He opened his eyes as he looked at the mirror the guy was using.

"Excuse me?"

"You know, from Afghanistan?"

"Iraq, actually." He softly corrected with a brief smile. The scar must've been _that _noticeable for him to have asked. Well, that and the buzz cut in his head.

"Really?" The guy's eyes brightened. "I have a friend there, actually. He's serving with the First Armored Division in southeastern Iraq."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, said it was quite awful in there, with the locals shooting at them and all that. Which branch did you serve?"

"The Marines." Mike simply, but proudly answered.

"Oh, okay. Were you an officer? Like a…_left_tenant, maybe?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He went near the glass partition that separated them in order for him to hear the man clearly. For a moment there, he thought he heard him say something about the left.

"You know, a _left_tenant. Like an officer, someone commanding a platoon or something like that."

"Ohhh," Realization had dawned on him as his brain now understood what the guy was saying. "you mean a _lieu_tenant right?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant."

"Nah, I was just an NCO. A corporal, you know?" The driver gave him an understanding nod.

"Really? I honestly had you pegged as an officer."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know, you have that aura of some sorts," he gestured with one hand as the other stayed on the driving wheel. "like, a commanding presence or something."

"I do?" Mike had asked, clearly intrigued on what this guy was telling him. The rest of the guys back at FOB Liberty didn't seem to have noticed this…thing the driver was talking about.

"Yep, I kid you not sir."

"Huh." Was all the marine corporal could say to him. He honestly hadn't known about that. Or maybe the guy was just yanking him around for shits and giggles. But the way he said it to him was so sincere and impressed, he couldn't been lying right to him. Right?

So after that, they rode in silence. With that, the guy just skillfully continued on what he did best, coming in and out of traffic, overtaking slow vehicles, and avoiding huge lines of piling motorists that were just being idle, waiting for the car in front of them to move. This driver must've been doing this kind of work for years, but he looked so young, just like him. And he himself just turned twenty a few months ago back in February.

He didn't dwell on the guy's background any further as his thoughts returned to what the guy had mentioned, about his "commanding presence" or something like that. He couldn't get it out of his head when he first heard the guy say it. But now that he thought about it, was it the reason why he could command his fire team so effortlessly? If so, why hadn't Victor and the rest of the men under his command say anything about it?

He knew if he continued this line of thought it wouldn't get him anywhere. Still, it would've been nice to know why he found it so easy to take charge like that. He quickly dispelled any thoughts of that matter or anything else relating to it. He came here to relax, unwind, and see the girl that he'd wanted to see in a long, long time.

Life couldn't get much better than this.

"Alright, sir." The driver pulled over at a sidewalk thirty-eight minutes later, "we're here. That'll be—" he looked at the meter in front of him, "sixty-four pounds and forty-three pence."

"Thanks, man." Mike quickly reached for his wallet behind his pants' back pocket, grabbed a hundred-pound bank note, and gave it to the guy—whose name was Henry. The black driver was about to count out and hand him his change when he stopped him from continuing. "Keep the rest, bro." Henry's eyes widened considerably.

"But sir—" He tried to protest before Mike gently cut him off.

"You deserve it, kid. Now where's the nearest hotel?"

"I—uh…" Henry was about to argue further when he realized that his customer was already dead set on giving him that huge tip. He just gave out a sigh. "Ridgemount Hotel, just walk twenty meters ahead and you'll find it."

"Thanks, and take care of yourself, Henry." He took the duffel bag beside him and opened the cab's right passenger door.

"You too, sir." The cabbie replied cheerfully, giving the marine a grin just before Mike closed the door shut and the taxi sped off.

The first thing he noticed when he exited the cab was how narrow Gower Street was. It was just a single two-lane road surrounded by lots and lots of buildings. And fancy looking buildings, too. It was a far cry from all those condos back home at Long Beach, and maybe twice as expensive, given how much the real estate here in London cost based on what Heather had told him.

It didn't take long before he finally found the hotel, booking a single-bed room from the modest-looking lobby and puffing it out for a few minutes as he took his time ascending the stairs. Nothing about this place screamed extravagant, just a simple-looking inn that provided people a place to rest up and eat. And he really liked it. There was something about this place, like it had a certain charming…appeal to it.

Reaching his floor, he immediately found his room and opened it. It was small, to say the least. But it had a bed, a small CRT television attached to the wall accompanied by a _really_ small electric fan. For the next two days, this was home. He slept on worse when he was back on Iraq, but the good news was that at least it had a working bathroom. A mirror was also attached to the wall, and taking a quick peek at it, he saw that he looked terrible. He decided to fix that.

A quick, hot shower a few moments afterwards had finally relieved him of most of the unwanted stress. Exiting the steaming bathroom, he made his way towards his duffel bag to look for something decent to wear. He hadn't packed that much clothes when he left the base: just a few long-sleeved collared shirts, an assortment of slacks; hell, he even brought his dress blues just to be sure. And now that he had a look at the clothes the residents here had worn, wearing that formal marine attire was definitely out of the question.

He decided he was going to wear a simple blue long-sleeved shirt, black slacks, and the leather shoes he used earlier. If it were completely up to him, he'd prefer to have just worn a simple T-shirt and jeans and leave it at that. But, a voice somewhere in the back of his mind had told him to look dashing and good-looking for his girl. And like the unconfident idiot that he was, he decided to listen to it.

After all that was settled, he exited the room and made his way towards the lobby to ask for directions, since he absolutely had no idea where the hell the campus was, or where the flowers shops were, or any other place for that matter.

"Can I help you, sir?" A fair skinned, middle-aged Englishwoman with graying hair had politely asked.

"Yeah, can you tell me where the nearby flower shops are?"

"Certainly, sir." She smiled and pointed left to where she was standing. "There's one just across the street."

"Oh," He looked at the place, and resisted the urge to do a face palm in front of the nice lady. _Damn it, now I look more like an ass,_ "okay."

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"How far is the UCL campus away from here?"

"Not far at all, sir." She gestured with his hand that was pointed further ahead in the south. "just walk past the end of this street for a few minutes then you'll find it."

"Wow," Mike said to himself in amazement. "at least I don't have to walk that far. Thanks."

"No trouble at all, sir." The lady gave him a genuine smile when he headed out the front door.

He gulped anxiously, hoping to God that he wouldn't make an ass out of himself further as he exited the building.


	7. Pieces

**A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing in this chapter, hahaha. :)**

* * *

His palms were starting to sweat, and the flowers that he bought from the shop earlier were weirdly getting heavier by the second. He had never felt this nervous in his entire life, and that fact alone was saying something, since it surpassed all of the recent events that had happened to him in the past year: which included his training at Parris Island and his first taste of combat. Nothing ever came close to what he was feeling right now. And it was ridiculous, if he thought about it that much. He had faced dangerous men who were intent on killing him, but when it came to surprising his girl, he felt suddenly lost all of a sudden.

_Damn it. _

He shook the panicky thoughts away from his mind as best as he could, but somewhat they always seemed to come back with a vengeance. He was thankful that the cool temperatures here were staving off most of the sweat that was starting to soak up his shirt, but in the area near his armpits, he wasn't that lucky. The UCL building was just a few dozen meters ahead, and every step he took going there only increased his already erratic heart rate.

_I'm a marine, damn it. I can do anything!_

He took a deep, somewhat relaxing breath and proceeded to move forward, his mind visualizing Heather's face if she saw him now with the white roses that he had and the smile that was soon to follow. That thought alone helped calm some of his shot-up nerves. But then again, it wasn't really that much.

Then his mind suddenly wandered about his appearance, and he suddenly became really conscious about it. He tried to assess the outfit he was wearing now, trying to look for any sort of fault that was out of place in it. Seeing none, he was quickly troubled about the stupid scar in his face, which stretched to about an inch a half going downwards across the bridge of his nose.

_What if she doesn't recognize me anymore?_

He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes just looking blankly ahead as he contemplated whether or not that coming here to surprise her was a huge and horrible mistake. The resolve within him, the one that brought him to this country confident and cavalier, now on the verge of collapse as he thought about the distinct possibility of his girl dumping him because of a fucking scar.

_I need a fucking a drink._

Walking further ahead with unadulterated fear starting to creep in, he saw an old-fashioned signpost above a door that showed, "The Nine Bells Pub". His lips widened into a small, sardonic smile. It was as if God himself was speaking to him, pointing to an English bar to help him get wasted for being so stupid, chastising himself again for not completely thinking this trip through.

He checked his chronometer to see what time it was, realizing now that it was only seventeen minutes past fifteen hundred, which unexpectedly gave him a little extra time left before Heather's class for today would end. He looked at the signpost and again at his watch before mentally shrugging.

_To hell with it, I guess I could use a drink or two._

His feet practically had a mind of its own as it took towards the door and went inside, even though a part of him was screaming that this way a really bad idea. Entering the establishment, he could smell the savory aroma of fried fish, potato fries (or chips, whatever the hell it was called here), and an assortment of different alcoholic beverages. The place itself didn't look bad either, with everything inside cleaned and well-arranged. To say he was impressed was an understatement, finally coming to the conclusion that the Brits were unquestionably better at a lot of things, besides making tea and fancy, headache-inducing poetry.

The pub itself was half-full, with the patrons happily immersing themselves in their own little word, swaying their glasses of beer and talking to their friends or…mates? He stuck out like a sore thumb in here, but he honestly didn't care. He desperately needed something to soothe his concerns down, and a cold beer was definitely the solution to all of his problems. At least he thought it was.

There wasn't really anyone sitting by the bar countertop, so he walked further and sat on a stool, placing the flowers he brought beside him. An old, balding heavyset man with a mustache went near him, a rag placed on his shoulder.

"What'll you 'ave?"

"What do you have on tap?" The bartender had a confused expression on his face for a fraction of a second before he recovered. Mike could only guess that this place wasn't really visited much by "yanks", as the Brits liked to call him and his fellow countrymen.

"There's Guinness and Carlsberg," The old guy took the rag from his shoulder and started wiping off the surface in front of him, "take your pick, lad."

"Okay then," He wasn't exactly a huge fan of the Danish-made pale lagers, finding the taste of it absolutely horrible. So that only left him with the world-famous Irish dry stout as his remaining choice. Besides, he hadn't really tasted it yet. Now was as good a time as any. "I'll take the—"

The door behind the bartender suddenly opened with a loud noise, and a brunette woman emerged from it hastily, quickly putting her hair in a pony-tail as she approached the older man. She looked gorgeous. The lady had brown eyes with a little scrap of hazel, really attractive features, and luscious lips. The last part he quickly shook off from his head.

"Hi," the brown-eyed lady greeted the bartender in an apologetic tone, "sorry I'm late."

"Where the hell have you been, lass?" The guy gruffly replied. "I've been waiting for you for the past thirty minutes."

"I'm terribly sorry, Jack." She bowed down her head in embarrassment. "I was just moving in to my new dorm at the University and I totally forgot the time."

"Not exactly a good first impression on your first day of work, lass." The woman's shoulders slumped as the guy scolded her before sighing hesitantly. "Just promise me it won't happen again."

"I promise!" The brunette's eyes lit up as she answered quickly with a smile. "I swear it won't happen again."

"Good, you can start with him right here." He pointed his head towards Mike's direction. "I'll be back in a few hours to check up on you." The old man grabbed a bag from underneath the countertop and grabbed his jacket from the coat rack near the door. "Don't screw this up."

"I won't." She replied confidently. The old man just shook his head in apparent disbelief and left.

"So," she faced him, the smile still firmly in place as she wore the bar apron, "what'll you have?"

"A glass of Guinness, please." He politely requested with a smile of his own. She did what he asked and grabbed a glass from the hanging rack above and slowly filled it with the dark-colored beer.

"Here you go," she handed him the glass with a coaster underneath. "a pint of Guinness as ordered."

He nodded his thanks and took a swig on the Irish-made dark brew. He blinked in astonishment. It was surprisingly good. Hell, it was _really_ damn good. He could make out the burnt flavor from the roasted unmalted barley within the draught, and you could barely even taste the alcoholic tang in it. He smiled on his glass as he upended its entire contents in a few gulps, ending with a satisfied exhale. This thing was liquid gold, and it made all the previous beers he drank suck in comparison.

"Another?" The woman—no, the new bartender—had asked. He nodded, with her grabbing another glass from the rack.

"So," she began casually while filling his glass, "come here a lot?"

"No ma'am," she handed him the second glass-filled beer along with a new coaster. "it's my first time here, actually."

"Really?"

"Yep, really."

"So what brings you here?"

"I came here to visit someone, ma'am." He simply told her while he took a liberal sip from his cold beer. Yep, it was still good.

"Is it a friend?" He just gave her a smile.

"I guess you could say that."

"For a yank, you're being awfully cryptic about it. Aren't you Americans usually known for your lack of subtlety?" She remarked with a smug smirk, crossing her arms across her ample breasts. Maybe it was the alcohol's doing, but he could've sworn that she was flirting with him. Was she? Nah, it couldn't be. If she had in another time he'd flirt back, but he had a girlfriend at the moment, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to messing his relationship up.

"I don't usually share my personal life with tardy bartenders, ma'am." He added a smile to soften the blow. She immediately realized her mistake and her cheeks quickly reddened.

"Sorry," she uncrossed her arms and raised a hand to awkwardly scratch the back of her head, "I'm still new to this whole thing."

"I noticed." He replied with an understanding tone. "Piece of advice, though? Usually you ask your customers those type questions after you know 'em for a few weeks or so. Just sayin', ma'am." He took another swill of his drink.

"Okay." She timidly looked away from him, still embarrassed.

"My turn with the questions, then." He rested his elbows on the countertop and leaned his chin on his interconnected fingers. "Why are you thirty minutes late on your first day of work?" She groaned frustratingly, but it wasn't aimed directly at him.

"My best friend was supposed to help me unpack today, instead she goes missing and—" a loud, catchy ringing tone suddenly comes out of nowhere. The lady bartender quickly placed her hand inside one of her cargo pants' pockets and retrieved a mobile phone. "Speak of the devil." She gave him a brief smile before answering the caller.

"Hey! Why weren't you…no, I'm at work right now. You know, from the pub near the University? Didn't you know about that? Yes…I remember…what? That's utterly mad! Wait, don't hang up! Sam? Hello…?" She looked at her cellular phone and frowned, before putting it back in her pocket.

"So," Mike drawled, just swirling his beer inside the glass. "I'm guessing she's still not going to help you out with your stuff?" She sighed exaggeratingly, putting a hand on her forehead.

"No, she's not." He couldn't help but laugh heartily at the poor woman's predicament. "I'm so glad that you find my suffering entertaining, you bloody yank."

"Hey," he raised his arms in surrender, "not my fault your best friend bailed out on you. What she doing now anyway?"

"She met up with this supposedly 'cute' sophomore earlier, told me she was going to 'take a stroll' on Gordon Square with him back at the campus." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"And you don't believe a word she said to you because…?"

"Because she never takes a stroll, and she hates long walks. Knowing her, she's probably shagging him already."

"Ohhh-kay," He drank a huge portion of his beer, wiping off some of the excess liquid in his mouth with the back of his hand. "that's…a bit disturbing."

"Yeah, it is." They were quiet for a few seconds, the silence just starting to settle in before she decided to talk to him again. "If you don't mind my asking, are you a soldier?"

"Why, am I really that obvious ma'am?" He replied sardonically with a smirk. She just gave him another one of her sweet smiles, which he suddenly found distracting.

"Well, the haircut and scar _weren't_ exactly a total giveaway." He just gave out a fleeting chuckle before facing her.

"Close. I'm a Marine, ma'am."

"Oh. So, you served overseas then?" He gave her a short nod.

"Yes ma'am."

"What was it like over there?" She asked innocently.

And _that_ made him think. With his brain induced with a glass and a half worth of quality beer, Mike tried to reflect long and hard at all of the things he had happened since he stepped foot on Iraqi soil nine months ago. How was he going to explain to this pretty young bartender the huge pressures of counter-insurgency warfare? Of what it felt like to have a giant bullseye behind your back whenever you went out to take part in a patrol, or that he was scared shitless thinking the convoy he was in on could be targeted for a preplanned ambush. How was he going to explain her all of that?

Maybe he could even say to her about what he felt like when he lost a man under his command, try letting her know about the residual guilt that was still within him even though he knew it wasn't his fault. But he didn't say anything. All he did was just look at the woman's alluring eyes with a neutral expression for a few seconds, then grabbed his half-empty glass of beer and drank its entire contents.

"You don't want to know, ma'am." He told her in a neutral voice. The playfulness that was going on between them before was gone, replaced with an uncomfortable stillness that hung obviously in the air. He grabbed his wallet and retrieved a twenty pound bill, setting it down on the countertop. That was probably enough to cover for his drinks and leave a huge tip. "Thanks for the beers, ma'am." She looked visibly guilty about her seemingly harmless line of questioning earlier.

"Listen, I'm dreadfully sorry if I offended you or—" She tried to apologize again but he cut her off with a tender tone.

"It's alright, ma'am. You did nothing wrong." He assured her with a sad smile, grabbing the flowers next to him while extending his hand towards the bartender. "It was nice meeting you, ma'am."

"Likewise." She replied softly, hesitantly taking his hand with her own. It was really soft, and he had to let go for fear of saying something stupid in his slightly intoxicated state. Turning around, he went for the door and left.

* * *

_I can do this. I can do this. I can definitely fucking do this thing. _Like a mantra stuck on repeat in his head, he kept saying it over and over again. The beer had undeniably helped most of his anxieties slip away, and his bravado finally returned. Although a bit drunkenly. He should've eaten something to help ease off some of the liquor running in his system, but he was kind of enjoying his earlier talk with the pub's new bartender rather than focus on his growling stomach.

She was a bit relaxed, easy to talk to, although was a little shy, and he couldn't resist the fact that the lady actually looked really adorable whenever she coyly looked away. He didn't even ask for her name, and if that particular topic about Iraq hadn't surfaced, he probably would have. Damn, the alcohol must've been stronger than he thought it was; because he wasn't exactly thinking straight at the moment. Not that he was drunk, though, he was just feeling a bit…overly comfortable, with his mind completely jumbling his wild thoughts and further widening his vivid imaginations.

_Her eyes, her smile, her lips. _He quickly shook his head. _Fuck, bad thoughts. Bad Michael. Heel boy, discontinue that line of crazy thought._

What the hell was he doing? He had this amazing woman in his life, and the moment he met this charming British bartender after two pints of beer, he suddenly became captivated by her beauty. He cursed himself mentally. Stupid Irish beers. If he was ever going to drink that stuff again, he would do it some place far, far away completely devoid of attractive female bar staff.

He was here for one reason and one specific reason only. To surprise his wonderful girlfriend and give her a night that she wouldn't forget anytime soon. He walked for the better part of…a couple of minutes. He wasn't exactly keeping track of time now, and he was too lazy to look at the time-piece on his wrist. It was now or never. He took a deep breath and moved onward, the fear earlier now replaced by excitement. Liquid courage was most definitely a real thing after all.

He walked across the huge expanse of the University's main quadrangle, the Old Refectory's towering support columns just standing in its entire splendor. The building itself that the pillars were holding looked eerily familiar, reminding him of the same architectural design that he saw back in Harvard when he first studied there four years ago. Nineteenth century construction with a few classical neo-baroque elements, he wasn't really sure. He barely even passed his architecture units when he was starting out, finding them almost impossible to understand.

He could see the students here just walking casually without a care in the world, just laughing and going about their own way. Just seeing all these people reminded him of simpler times, when he was just hanging out with his college buddies, drinking cheap booze and trying to finish up a term paper that was due tomorrow. It wasn't exactly an easy task finishing those papers with a crushing hangover. A memory of an innocent time, when he thought being a diplomat could help make a difference.

Mike went through inside the structure ahead of him, passing through the main library, the Jeremy Bentham Room and the Bloomsbury Theater building before he found himself on Gordon Street; which passed through all sides of Gordon Square. In just a few short minutes, he was going to see her. He remembered when he and Heather talked on the phone a few months ago, when she told him that after her classes in anthropology, she would just sit on the smooth grass on the garden inside the square, just looking at her surroundings: the people passing by, the birds overhead chirping, and the cool breeze slowly providing a welcoming sensation to everyone. It was her favorite spot in the entire campus, and she would practically sit here for hours on end.

Entering the allotment, he made his eyes squint, trying to look over the large tract of land for where she was. There were a lot of people in here, strolling, having a picnic and all that other stuff. It was impossible to look for Heather in—

And then he saw her. His girl just sitting in a bench alone that overlooked a tree with red leaves, with a smile that was practically a permanent fixture in her beautiful face. Just letting her eyes roam around and taking in everything she saw. He felt his heart stop, his throat tighten, and his mouth going dry. There she was, and he couldn't stop the grin that was already forming on his lips.

She was wearing his old maroon Harvard sweatshirt with white lettering, along with a pair of skinny jeans and sneakers. He remembered giving her that shirt when they were already going out for three weeks, when all of a sudden she felt cold doing their stroll on the beach at eight in the evening. How loose-fitting it was on her feminine frame, yet she insisted that she had to have it. God, she still looked stunning since the last time he saw her.

He noticed that she grew her natural blonde mane a little bit longer, the ends of her hair having already gotten past her sculpted shoulders, which were hidden underneath his shirt. The wait was definitely worth it. All the close brushes with death, the fear and excitement, the near misses from Iraqi bullets. Yeah, it was completely worth it.

He took a slightly tentative step forward, followed by another. And the next thing he knew he was already making his way towards her, albeit a little slower than usual. What was he going to say to her? A simple "hi" or "hello" would be too lame, and something that was extremely long would practically ruin the moment, and he didn't want that.

_Fuck it. _A simple hello would suffice for now and he'd take it from there. Hopefully he wouldn't screw this up.

His heart was beating faster for each step he took going near her, and by the time he was already halfway on his stride, it was thumping like a mini-gun firing in full spin. A slight sliver of his intense uneasiness managed to pierce through his self-assurance's alcoholic haze, and naturally it freaked him out, invoking his fight-or-flight response which he thought only occurred when he was in a life threatening situation.

He couldn't back down now, not after having travelled two thousand five hundred miles and waiting for this moment to happen for nine months. To hell with the rest, he came here to do this and he was going to see it through. His efforts redoubled, with his gait now showing extreme confidence and unquestionable resolve. His grin never faltered.

_I can do this. I can do this. I can definitely fucking do this thing._

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost didn't notice a man coming out of nowhere, greeting his girl with a wave. Heather's face looked extremely happy upon seeing the guy, and he saw her catapult right into his arms with a bear crushing hug.

He stopped walking, feet firmly implanted on the ground with a confused expression on his face. _What the hell…?_

Maybe this man was a good friend of hers, or his gay best friend. Who knows, and he just saw them standing, talking animatedly and giving out a few laughs in between. The way she was talking with the guy almost reminded him of…no, it couldn't be. Maybe this guy was her best friend. Girls tend to be a little physical when they were with their closest friends…right?

The guy took her hands with his own, saying something that he couldn't hear on his own ears. Heather's grin just widened even further, and she hugged him once more. Only this time, this one was far more intimate than the last, burying her head into his chest.

His heart basically stopped. What the hell was this? What the hell was going on? And who was this good-looking guy that she was hugging? He wanted to confront her, scream at her, something! But he remained rooted on the spot; barely moving a muscle as his inert jealousy, which he thought didn't exist, crept into the corners of his mind.

She pulled back on her hug, her green eyes just looking into the guy's own. Not saying anything, not doing anything, the two of them just holding each other's respective gazes. The scene in front of him looked horrifyingly similar to what he experienced back home, and he viciously refused to believe what his logic had already concluded on this particular moment. Heather wouldn't do this to him, he just knew it. She promised she'd wait for him, she said she'd…

And then she slowly leaned in towards the guy, and she captured his lips in a chaste kiss. The marine's mouth gaped in shock.

_No, no, no. This…this couldn't…she wouldn't do this to me. Oh God…why?_

Mike's heart broke into a million pieces, his breathing became labored, and he could feel his eyes starting to water. _Sweet Mother of Christ, why would she do this to me?_

It almost felt like being stabbed with a Ka-Bar combat knife right through his heart, the pain of it excruciatingly unbearable. He couldn't take his eyes off of them, and it only served to make his suffering even worse.

_No, please God no. _His hands shook, and he felt his lips tremble in parts of pain and indignation. This was too much for him to bear, and as much as he wanted to move away or punch that college fucker in the face, he still couldn't bring himself to move.

He should've died on that battle two days ago, when the insurgents were about to overrun him and the Army's artillery shells would've killed him instantly, sparing him the agony of it all. It was still better than watching her do this to him, betraying him and breaking his heart. He might as well be dead.

They disengaged from their fervent embrace and walked away, heading towards the opposite direction. Yet, he remained. Still wallowing on how stupid he was for trusting her. Then again, he was stupid for a lot of things. It didn't matter anymore.

Everything didn't matter anymore.


	8. Scuffle

She never felt so stupid in her entire life. How could she have been so daft? The question just came out of her mouth uncontrollably without conscious thought, and the next thing she knew, that nice soldier—or marine, as the yank had called himself—left the pub without missing a beat. She wanted to hide behind a rock and stay there for a long, long time. Her first day on the job, and already she alienated a customer _after _she unsuccessfully tried to flirt with him. What a bloody cock up!

She sighed while mixing a cocktail, it was really hard not to and she couldn't help it. The yank was such a wonderful guy, and the fact that he hadn't tried to get into her pants the moment he saw her placed him favorably in her mind. Was she ever going to see him again? She hadn't even had the chance to ask for his name, and she probably never will. She couldn't stop staring at his baby blue eyes, the way it wrinkled every time he smiled, his chiseled jaw, small nose, his short brown hair that looked uncannily similar to her own, mixed with his stubble that made him look absolutely good-looking.

The yank also had a smooth facial complexion, but the wound on the bridge of his nose almost made her fail to notice it. Most—if not all—women find scars extremely attractive, and she was surprised that she found herself being one of them. It took a lot of willpower not to stare at it, and she at least had the decency not to ask how he got it.

_Just like the same one I used when I asked him what war was like…_

She groaned inwardly. She was such an insensitive arse, and she couldn't forget how his face became all despondent, undoubtedly thinking about all the terrible things he had seen and done in the service of his country. A true patriot to what he believed in. Her guardian was one such man, and she could lovingly remember that tough Northerner who, like him, didn't talk much about his extensive tours of duty during his time as a commando in the Royal Marines. Maybe he and that yank shared the same horrible experiences, which only made her feel more awful for treading deep into his personal life.

Still, she just wished that she could go turn back time, and take back what she had said to him a few hours ago. Who knows, if she had avoided airing his dirty laundry, maybe they would've taken off from there and gotten to know each other better. It was more of a miracle for that to happen now. Two months. Two months since she'd last had a relationship with another guy, and it ended horribly. She totally regretted her brief time together with Dan, and she wasn't even sure if it _was _a relationship. She even forgot the reason why she liked him in the first place, and it still troubled her greatly that the guy was her first boyfriend.

Well, what's done was done. She made a terrible mistake and she would never see that yank again; that gorgeous, wonderful and courteous yank. She tried picturing herself together with him, how they would have the most amazing dates which would end spectacularly, with her kissing him so deeply that it would make her knees weak from the intense euphoria that was sure to come. How could she not? Those lips of his seemed all so…

"Excuse me, miss." She snapped back to reality. Looking ahead of her, a middle-age man, who sported semi-casual clothes and crooked teeth, broke her out of her wild thoughts.

"Yes, how may I be of service?" She asked him politely.

"Can I get a glass of Jameson, please? Two fingers, no ice." She nodded, and she immediately turned about to the shelves filled with dozens of assorted alcohol bottles, trying to find the requested brand of Irish whisky. It didn't take long before she finally grabbed the bottle, filled a clear glass with the appropriate amount of liquor, then handing it over towards the patron. The man said his thanks and proceeded to return to his table packed with his half-drunk friends, who were cheering for their man as if he won the Premier League trophy.

The pub was certainly filled with a lot of customers today, and they were getting rowdier with each passing minute. She just hoped that it wouldn't get any worse for her first shift here tonight, the last thing she needed was for Jack to come to her rescue for failing to subdue these people. She couldn't afford to fail and get fired on her first job, not now, seeing as how she wanted to earn her own way towards paying for her education and more. And she would most definitely see this through.

The crowd cheered loudly, and she looked over to the focal point of their somewhat undivided attention. The telly was showing off a match between Arsenal and Norwich City, with the former having just scored a goal against the opposing team. The tally was 4-2 with only five minutes left on the clock; the audiences from both the stadium and the pub were hanging on the edge of their seats with each passing second. She wasn't really a huge fan of the sport and she looked away, preferring to keep on working instead by cleaning the surface of the countertop with a rag.

The old-fashioned bell attached to the door rang, its hollow sound just barely noticeable, as the loud commotion from the various groups of customers made it almost impossible to hear. Another one must've entered the establishment, and she didn't have the time to take a look at the newcomer as a different customer requested an additional round of drinks for his buddies.

So she worked away, grabbing the necessary glasses from the overhead racks, filling them with a variety of beer, then handing them out to the waiting patron; who gingerly grabbed the tray-filled drinks and passed her a twenty-pound banknote as payment. It was a bit hard work, being a bartender and all, and she had to remind herself again that she needed this job because of its good pay and generous tips. She could do this.

She grabbed a towel underneath the countertop to wipe off some beer splatter that soaked her hands, the scent of it completely bombarding her nostrils. Now she had to attend to the new arrival before he, or she, might—

Her heart sank downwards in her stomach, and the butterflies inside it were fluttering uncontrollably. He was here, he was really here. Was she hallucinating? She blinked several times to see if she was, but he was still there. He was real, and her chest kept on thumping to remind her she was pretty much nervous. Still, she couldn't help but smile.

But something seemed wrong. He looked so miserable, and with the way his shoulders were sagging, it must've been something awful. Could she be the one responsible for that?

Her heart paced even more. It was certainly a possibility, but she would've known it a while back when the yank said his goodbyes. As much as she remembered, there wasn't any malicious tone in his farewell; at least, none that she's known about.

Still, she's never seen anyone this crestfallen before, his eyes were just conveying an unprecedented amount of sadness that was just too heartbreaking to see. The yank sat on the edge of the bar, hands just clasped together right in front of him as he just stared into nothingness.

A huge part of her just wanted to go to him and give the poor yank a big hug to comfort him, to tell him that everything was going to be alright and to just let it out. But it wouldn't be proper, and as much as she wanted to take away his grief, it wasn't her place. It's not like she was his girlfriend or anything.

So she did the only thing she can do.

"Hey, can I get you something?"

"Guinness," he said to her without averting his gaze, voice barely even a whisper. She just nodded and wordlessly proceeded to fill out a glass of beer and giving it to him.

It was surprising to say the least, seeing how fast he emptied his glass in just a few gulps. Five hundred sixty-eight milliliters of alcohol just downed in less than four seconds flat. Whatever the poor man has been through, he must want to forget it so badly, as he mildly slammed the empty glass in front of him.

"Another." He croaked, and she went to do the same thing again.

By the time he finished his third beer, she was a bit concerned as to where this might lead. When he expended his fourth, that concern started to grow exponentially. On his way to consuming his fifth glass, she was starting to consider the notion of cutting him off.

She could already spot the telltale signs of the man already on the verge of becoming hammered. He was already swaying from side to side, his skin now becoming extremely flushed as his eyes lazily looked further ahead of him, losing its previously alert luster.

"Ma'am," he said to her softly, his speech becoming slurred as he put his glass down on the countertop gently, "can you tell me where the phones here are?"

The stunned her for a moment. What was he going to do now? Drunk call someone he knew and say something he might thoroughly regret? She racked her brain for a few milliseconds. A huge part of her was curious of what had caused him to be this way, and another part wanted to ask why he was acting this way. So against her better judgment, she wanted to find out who in their right mind would cause this wonderful man to get extremely pissed up.

"The landlines here are currently inoperable at the moment," which was true, seeing as how Jack had wanted to upgrade the phone lines to today's standard. Those bloody things were almost as ancient as this place. In front of her, the yank looked painfully disheartened with the news, and she added, "but you could use my phone if you like."

_What the bloody hell are you doing? _Her mind screamed at her. She wasn't really thinking straight at the moment, and she usually wasn't like this when it came to men, as she prided herself for her calm sense of control. But there was just something about him, something that made her want to lower her guard and open up to him. If she thought about it that much, she knew it sounded really silly. But in all respects, she just really wanted to help this poor yank out as best as she could, trying to ignore the fact that she was obviously attracted to him.

"Wouldn't…wouldn't want to impose ma'am," he lethargically said to her, and positioned himself to stand up while fumbling to grab his wallet. "I should just use those phone booths outside."

"It's no trouble at all," she insisted, trying to keep her voice steady as she grabbed her iPhone from her pants pocket, presenting it to him with an open palm. She added a smile to reassure him.

He looked at the smartphone for a few seconds (which seemed like an eternity), then shrugged and returned to his seat, grabbing the offered cell phone.

"If you're sure," he said, before facing her with those dazzling blue eyes of his and smiling indolently. "thank you."

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered even more as they did their thing upon seeing the yank's smile. She swore to herself in her thoughts. This was completely and utterly ridiculous! She wasn't some lovesick school girl, she was a woman dammit! And by God she'll like act like one. She tried to suppress those damned feelings in her abdomen, but it only seemed to worsen. _Damn it._

The yank tried to type the number in the screen interface, but she heard him curse quietly as he fumbled in his task.

"Friggin' touchscreens." He tried typing in the number again. As he sluggishly tapped each of the digits, he stopped in mid-press; looking upwards as he tried to remember the number he was dialing.

He must've been successful, as she saw him pressed the mobile in his right ear while his facial features seemed to express a substantial amount of sorrow. This was it, she was finally going to find out what had happened that made the yank decide to drink into oblivion.

"Hey…it's Mike." He kindly said into the phone, leaning his elbows into the countertop. So that's what his name was, at least it spared her the expense of asking for it awkwardly. She liked how the name was fitting for a warm person like him. Michael. She quickly brushed that thought aside. Did the person on the other end answer? "This is probably the last time I'm going to call you, so I'm glad you're not there to answer it." Well, apparently they weren't.

"Anyways," he continued on, his face still frozen in unhappiness. "just wanted to let you know that I just arrived here on England a few hours ago, hoping to surprise you and all. But, turns out I was the one who had the surprise of my life." He tried blinking rapidly, as if trying to stave off the tears that were sure to come. All of a sudden, she didn't want to hear the rest of this call anymore. "So I saw you with your guy today, he's really a catch. I could tell that you really liked him. The way you looked at his eyes, the way you embraced him, and the way you kissed him…" He exhaled, looking down on the ground beneath his stool. "See, I know all this…because you used to do those things with me a few months back, when I thought I was still your guy."

She wanted to block out her hearing so she wouldn't have to overhear where this was all going, fighting off her own tears from spilling. Nobody deserved to feel the way Mike was feeling right now, and she became infuriated at the unknown woman who had the audacity to break a loving heart such as his.

"To sum it all up…I just wanted to say that I hope you're happy with him. That's all." He disconnected the call and handed the phone back to her. "Thank you."

"No problem." She took the phone and pocketed it.

"Can I…can I have another glass, please?"

"I'm not entirely sure that's a good idea…" She drifted off as she suddenly became the pivotal mark of his somewhat determined gaze, his eyes just pleading helplessly for her to accept his request. She could feel her resolve crumbling under the sight of his intense vulnerability.

"Please ma'am…I just…" He looked away, trying to collect his thoughts to explain why she would give him another drink. "I just want to forget, even if it's only for a day…"

Every instinct she had told her not to give him another round, but he was so devastated and emotionally exposed that her heart was practically flooding with extreme sympathy. She didn't know what else to do, so she just nodded and silently grabbed another glass from the rack, pulling the tap to gradually fill the container with the famous Irish beer.

"Thank you, ma'am." He answered as she handed him his drink, slowly lifting the glass up to chug its contents. How was she going to stop herself from giving him another? For the first time since she arrived here, she wished Jack was here to help her out in a position like this. The old man would certainly know how to deal with this kind of situation.

Mike was halfway through his eighth consecutive beer when the door behind her opened, revealing the welcoming sight of Jack taking off his coat and hat.

"The cooks are tellin' me you're doin' a mighty fine job, girl." The pub's owner happily said to her as he approached, his hands on the process of putting on a bar apron on his waist. He was about to congratulate her before she cut him off.

"Thank God you're here." she told him, minimizing her voice so that the yank couldn't hear. Jack warily looked at her.

"Why, what's goin' on?"

"I can't get him to stop drinking," she looked at Mike worriedly before continuing, "if he doesn't, who knows what might happen."

"Don't worry, lass." The Scotsman tried to assure her, "I'll take it from here, now you go home and—"

"Oy! What do we 'ave here?"

Both of them turned their heads towards the source of the commotion. Seeing two drunken Englishmen who she knew from earlier, now hovering on both sides of the yank. Mike just ignored them and continued on drinking his beer.

"So what gives ya the right to come here and drink our beer, huh? Ya murdering bastard!" Jack was on his way to break up the scuffle when the unthinkable happened. The first drunk grabbed a fistful of Mike's shirt collar and socked him square in the jaw, dropping the glass he was holding as it broke into dozens of pieces upon hitting the ground, splashing the floor with beer. He fell from his stool, struggling to get up from his drunken state as the two encircle him. Suddenly everyone in the bar turned quiet and gasped. The second drunk had a bottle in hand and smashed it into the bar countertop, converting it into a makeshift weapon.

"That's enough! Both of you!" Jack shouted as he exited the counter top through a side door.

"This ain't your fight, old man." The first drunken twat responded. "We're going to show this, 'soldier', why he needs to be punished for murdering innocent civi—" he didn't get to finish his sentence as Mike unleashed a vicious left hook, knocking him down to the ground as the wanker landed on the pile of broken glass from earlier. The man cursed out loudly as his hands became bloodied with deep gashes.

"You'll pay for that!" The second sloshed bastard screamed as he lunged at him with the broken bottle. Her heart stopped, fear immobilizing her from doing anything other than gape in horror at what was happening right in front of her. The yank just stood there, hands at the side as the hostile figure came charging towards him. _Move, damn it!_

Mike just effortlessly evaded the attack, just swaying his body until the arm was just across from his muscled form. He grabbed the man's wrist hard, eliciting a pained scream from the fellow as he redirected his momentum towards the bar, with another hand snaking itself on the back of the guy's head—smashing it forcefully on the countertop.

The crowd reacted with another gasp as the assailant stood from the recent blow to the head, just standing for a few moments before he fell on his back with a loud thud, completely unconscious. Everyone inside just became silent with what just happened—then erupting into a loud cheer as their merry voices resonated around the pub.

The marine stumbled as he tried walking, grabbing a stool to support himself as he brought a hand to his head, the sudden movements must've hastened his inebriation. Several patrons moved near Mike and congratulated him for knocking those idiots out, patting him in his shoulders and offering to buy his next few drinks. With the way he was struggling to walk and stand, he wouldn't be drinking anytime soon.

Jack shooed the cheering customers away as he helped Mike sit down on a stool, after which he cleaned up some of the broken glass fragments and grabbed something metallic with a chain lying on the floor.

"You need to get out of here, lad." The old man told Mike as he cleaned the ground.

"But…I haven't paid my bill yet—" he hiccupped, "—let me just get my…"

"It's on the house, kid. Now move along." Jack faced her. "Help him get a cab or something, then go home. You've done a good job today, lass." He nodded approvingly as he handed her something with an open palm.

A pair of dog tags along with a ring of some sorts attached to it. It must've fallen off from Mike when he was punched by that lumbering idiot a while ago. She took it before she grabbed her jacket and helped the yank on his feet.

* * *

He was extremely heavy, and she struggled to support him as they trekked on the paved concrete sidewalks of Gower Street. Based on what she got from him a few minutes ago, he was staying at Ridgemount Hotel in room twenty-two from the second floor. She knew where that place was, and she hoped that her ridiculously low upper-body strength would hold until they get there.

"You…don't have to do this ma'am…" he slowly muttered as he walked drunkenly beside her with his arm around the back of her neck. "I can…walk on my own."

"I beg to differ," she grunted while she tried her best to guide him along the path. "you shouldn't have drank that many beers."

"Couldn't help it…just wanted to forget, how painful it was…seeing her with another guy…"

"Well, what she did was wrong. You deserved better."

"You're so sweet…" He told her cheerfully as he staggered in his gait. "Boyfriend must be a lucky guy…"

_I wish. _Her experience with Dan made her want to forget about relationships in general. Well, almost. She looked at him as his face was locked in a drunken smile staring out ahead, and she couldn't help but beam at the sight of that.

It didn't take long before they arrived in the hotel's front entrance; where a nearby doorman assisted her in taking him off her hands. _Thank God_. Any minute longer and she would've collapsed from sheer exhaustion from carrying the heavily muscled marine. They walked through two flights of stairs before they arrived in his room, thanking the polite employee before he took his leave.

The room itself was small, where there was only a single-mattress bed in the corner with a single window overlooking the street, accompanied by a small television set and a compact electric fan hovering above the bed. She set Mike down on the soft cushion as she proceeded to remove his shoes and socks. The yank tried to stop her, his calloused hands grabbing her delicate fingers with a gentle touch.

"Ma'am, you've done more than enough. I can do—"

"It's perfectly alright," she comfortingly said to him as she removed the last sock. "why don't you lie down and rest?"

"I'm not really tired yet, ma'am." He looked right into her eyes, and she found herself unable to look away. "I…thank you, ma'am. For everything that you've done…"

"Don't worry about it." She answered back with a smile. They just stared at each other, not knowing for how long as she felt herself being lost, just gazing intently into those deep blue orbs of his.

She was just towering over him as she stood in front of the man, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands on top of his lap. Standing just a foot apart, she closed off the space between them slowly, her hands gently stroking both his cheeks as the stubble's rough texture tickled her fingers. She could feel him tense up because of her touch, and she heard him gulp audibly as his stare never wavered.

All semblance of control was starting to fade away; her desires within her were increasing radically, vainly fighting a losing battle with herself for the urge to just kiss him passionately. This was utterly mad, and she knew it. This wasn't her that was taking the lead, but another part of her that she didn't know had existed…until now.

She was always so stoic and unwavering when it came to her approach in life, whether it was in school, her relationships, her friends, everything. She was usually in control with whatever came her way ever since she lost her parents nine years ago. At that time, it was a necessity. To protect herself; from all those unpredictable threats that were lying in wait out there, just ready for the time when she'd slip up so they could take full advantage of her vulnerability.

Now, with him though, it made her feel reckless, to move and think without calculating the possible risks of doing this and that. In short, she was being the exact opposite of who she really was. And she liked it. No more walls and defenses. It was happening all so fast, and she honestly didn't care. There was only one thing left to do.

She leaned in, her head coming closer and closer until she felt her mouth connect with his. He gave out a small sound of surprise, his muscles became stiff with shock, rigid, and she could feel his body going further taut as her tongue plunged boldly into his mouth; parting his lips to sweep for something that was just underneath the line of his teeth.

A few seconds later, he finally reciprocated her kiss as he placed his hands on her back, wrapping her small feminine frame in a tight embrace that promised so much warmth and support.

She further pressed her body against him, her sizeable breasts flattening against his broad chest as she threw her arms around his neck, further deepening the kiss. Her heart was already racing, her breath quickening while her knees grew weak as her tongue consistently clashed with his in a never-ending battle for supremacy. The taste of him was completely intoxicating. She moaned loudly as the heat of his touch became completely exhilarating as she felt his hands carry her legs.

He positioned her limbs to straddle him as he broke contact from their passionate lip-lock, caressing her neck as he swirled his velvety tongue all along the length of her throat, which only served to further increase her excitement. She gasped, arching her back as her hands pulled his head closer to her.

His slow, teasing strokes on her senses only aided to torment her. She wanted more, so much more, and she was done being passive. So she started to unbutton his shirt and tried to take it off his shoulders.

His hands caught her wrists, and he stopped his dizzying assault on her neck as he looked at her, eyes clouded with desire.

"Wait…what're we doing?" He breathlessly said to her. She wanted to growl out in frustration, but her self-control reined in on her immense arousal as her mind struggled to form a coherent sentence.

"Don't you want this, Mike?" She told him, capturing his lips as she slid her breasts over the expanse of his chest. They kissed fervently for a few more minutes until he broke it off again, both of them flushed and out of breath.

"It's not that…it's just…are you sure about this?"

"What makes you think I'm not?" She tenderly said to him as she touched his cheeks, her brown eyes looking at him as he looked away.

"I don't want to take advantage of you, ma'am…hell; I don't even know your name."

Then it her, like she was given a huge backhanded slap in her face. Good Lord, what the hell was she doing? She was so intent on being with him completely that she forgot why she was doing this in the first place. She couldn't believe it. Sex _actually _clouded her judgment, and she could feel her cheeks reddening further with mortification. If anything, she was beginning to act like her best friend.

And what he said about him talking advantage of her? He was wrong. It was actually the other way around, and the shame was finally starting to kick in as her head lay in the crook of his shoulder, burying her face further in his neck. She almost forgot about the fact that he just had his heart broken a few hours ago. Maybe her break up with Dan messed her up somehow, more than she'd care to admit.

"I'm sorry." She said to him quietly, her arms further tightening her hold in his neck.

"Don't be, ma'am." Mike tried to comfort her. "I'm hammered, and you're…well, I don't know…"

"Emotionally deranged?" She suggested as she pulled away from her embrace.

"Something like that." He said to her with a smile. "I guess…we're going a little bit too fast, huh?" She gave him a nod.

"Yeah, we are."

"Sooo…what now?"

She noted her completely awkward position on top of him and she stood up from his crotch, taking a seat next to him in the bed.

"I honestly don't know, I really wasn't thinking that much."

"Me too," he replied as he lied down on the bed with his hands behind his head, "I think I'm sobering up a bit. I should probably thank you for that, ma'am." She laughed heartily as she followed his example by lying down on the soft mattress.

"I can't believe I almost slept with you," she uttered without thinking, before realizing her mistake. "not that I don't want to, it's just—"

"It's okay ma'am, I get it." He assured her in an understanding tone. "Besides, we'd probably regret it in the morning."

"Yeah, I'm not exactly looking forward to the awkward talks and the walk of shame back to my flat." He chuckled, and she found the sound of it as sweet music to her ears. She turned her head to the left to look at him, his face just looking up in the ceiling.

"See? We just saved ourselves a lot of trouble, ma'am." He turned his head to look at her as well, his eyes blue sparkling from the moonlight coming from outside the window. "I just wished we met under different circumstances."

"Same here," she agreed as she finally decided to stand up from the bed. "I should probably go."

"Sure," he followed suit and buttoned his blue shirt. "I'll take you home."

"That won't be necessary, Michael. By the way, I almost forgot." she pulled the tags from inside her pocket and showed it to him with an outstretched hand. "Here, take it."

He eyed the military identification tags for a few moments before he shook his head, pushing her offered hand towards her with a ridiculous smile which she found alluring.

"Keep it, ma'am."

"What? But surely you'll need it—"

"I can always get another set of those, ma'am."

"What about the ring?" She asked, referring to his 2007 Harvard International Relations class ring attached to the dog tags' inner chain. She honestly hadn't expected him to have graduated from such a prestigious and respected university, and it only solidified her interest in him even further.

"That too, ma'am." He casually added.

"At least tell me why you're giving away such a precious item."

"Let's just say, it reminded me of a more innocent time, I suppose." He looked distant as he explained, a sad smile in place. "How naïve I was of the world, and how much I wanted to fix it." Mike wrapped his hand around hers and enclosed her open palm, the tags and ring inside of it. "I want you to have it."

"I…" She looked away from his distracting gaze, suddenly out of words from his heartwarming gesture. She liked him even more. Damn it, "I don't know what to say."

"I still haven't gotten your name." She smiled, placing a hand on top of his as she held it firmly.

"It's Lara. Lara Croft."

* * *

**Tell me what you guys think. :)**

**-Rookie571**


	9. Coping

**Just a short chapter filled with meaningless conversations, hope you don't mind. :)**

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He never felt so relieved to have returned back to Iraq, the usual searing hot weather surprisingly welcoming as he stepped inside back into the bowels of FOB Liberty. The events that had transpired in the last few days had left him drained completely, both physically and emotionally; and he didn't want to stay in London any more than he should have, even though he still had an extra day left on his R&R. It was almost even a challenge to get up from his bed earlier, with a massive hangover crushing his head.

The incident with Heather had burned brightly on the forefront of his mind, and the ache in his heart continued to linger there painfully; as his thoughts returned to what he had seen back there in the university less than a day ago. The whole relationship was doomed from the start, but he honestly believed that if he remained unselfish and faithful then everything would fall in its place. He'd never been so wrong in his entire life, and all he had received was a cheating ex-girlfriend and a broken heart. He'd hate to admit it to the man, but Victor was right all along, long-distance relationships were already over since the day it began.

He tried to think of all the things that he had said and done, going through everything to figure out what had caused her to think that he wasn't worth the effort anymore. But he couldn't find any, and maybe she just gave up on them simply because she was lonely. The Heather that he thought he had come to have known and care about wouldn't dare do this to him, and it only served to remind him that maybe he didn't know her that well as he'd been led to believe. It was a stupid mistake, and in the end it had cost him a lot in the long run.

The hug, the look they shared, and that intimate kiss. He still couldn't get those images out of his head, no matter how much he tried to do so. He knew if he kept on thinking about it over and over again he'd only hurt himself, trying to reminisce of what he'd lost. But he couldn't help it. He still missed her terribly even after what she'd done to him, and all the wonderful times they spent together was not something that he could try to forget overnight.

Been together for almost ten months, and this is what he'd get. Figures, it was certainly official. Love definitely sucked.

Though his ex-girlfriend's infidelity troubled him greatly, it wasn't the only thing that was concerning him. In his semi-drunken emotional state, he had almost slept with that attractive bartender from the pub he'd visited before and after that incident. God, she was definitely something. And it took a lot of his shot-up willpower during that night to stop from their passionate contact, even though a huge part of him just wanted to carry on and embrace his carnal instincts. As painstaking as it was during that time, he knew he did the right thing, and that wonderful woman deserved a helluva lot better than a heartbroken marine.

Still, he couldn't help but think about the time he spent together with her even when it was really brief. He enjoyed her company, and he couldn't deny the fact that he had been evidently attracted to her. Even before he went through that horrible thing with his newfound ex, he thought she was beautiful.

_Listen to yourself, you just went through a horrible revelation and yet you're fantasizing about her._

He shook his head from that thought. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew he was hurting bad from seeing Heather with that guy, and yet he couldn't stop thinking about that brunette. He must be going crazy after seeing his girl cheat on him with someone else. Heather is—_was_—his first serious relationship, and he had absolutely no idea how to handle this amount of heartache. Maybe his attraction to that bartender was a coping mechanism of some sort? He'd never know, and truth be told he really didn't want to know.

He'd just handle this like any other person out there. Deal with this hurt as best as he could, then move on. Yeah, he would do that. He could do this, he had to do this. Not just for his sake, but for the sake of his men. If he fucked up again because of an unfaithful bitch, he'd never forgive himself; which was why he wasn't telling them anything about what had happened there.

He just hoped that girl, what was her name, Kara? Lara? Damn Irish alcohol made it hard to remember. He sincerely hoped that she would forgive him in time, for having let her believed that what had happened between them would lead to something more. No matter how much he had wanted it to be.

_Fuck. _With any luck, his tags and his Harvard class ring would make her realize to avoid guys like him in the future. Yep, girls like her didn't have need for a despairing jarhead in their lives. Not now, not ever.

Everything in the base here was exactly the same as the last time he'd seen it before he left. Off-duty guys still playing, relaxing, fixing things. It would probably be their routine for as long as they'd be here. He adjusted the shoulder strap to his duffel bag before proceeding to head back to his tent and arriving there momentarily.

Opening the flap, he was rewarded with the sound of laughter. More specifically, it was Victor's, as he saw his best friend laugh from whatever it was Allen had said to him. His sudden entry into their shelter had them all facing in his direction, with Peterson raising an eyebrow.

"The hell are you doing here, sir?" Allen was the first to voice their confusion. "We weren't expecting you to be back here until tomorrow."

"Slight chance of plans," he lied to them with a small smile. "Heather had this big thing at the University, said she needed to focus on it."

"Really?" Peterson asked skeptically.

"Yeah, really. But at least I saw her though, that counts for something." Peterson narrowed his eyes a bit, not buying his half-assed explanation. But thankfully he left it at that as he returned his attention to loading FMJ rounds into his clip with a sling in his arm.

"If you say so." Allen added indifferently.

"Fellas," Victor addressed both of his fellow marines, his eyes never leaving Mike's. "it's almost time for chow, ain't it? Why don't you both get us all a plate and bring it here."

"But I'm not—" The southern lance corporal started to object before Peterson cut him off and grabbed his arm, understanding the subtle message in Vic's request.

"Well, I am. Come on, let's go get it." The private led both of them out of the tent, leaving Mike and Victor alone inside. He had anticipated that this talk would happen eventually, and he'd been dreading it ever since he decided to leave London a day ahead as scheduled. His best bud wasn't a fool, and the lie he'd try to tell them didn't exactly work. Then again, it never usually does when it came to Vic.

His friend stood from his cot, and he watched the man as he limped his way across a chair that was just in front of him, trying to get closer. His leg wound probably hasn't healed yet from their latest action, and yet somehow, he was here instead of recuperating at the aid station. Vic still didn't like the idea of staying at a place filled with other wounded marines.

"Okay, Mike. It's just you and me now," The private said to him in a calm voice, "what the hell happened? And don't bullshit me this time." He exhaled, trying to still his breathing.

"I don't know what you're talking about, man."

"It's Heather, isn't it? What did she do, Mike?" He wanted to just turn around and leave, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden from his best friend's inquisitiveness.

"Listen, Vic. I don't want to ta—"

"What did she do?"

"It's complicated alright?" Anger started boiling towards the surface, his facial features starting to scowl as he tried to talk back. "I don't wanna—"

"What. Did. She. Do." Victor slowly said to him as he interrupted, his gaze never wavering. Mike was gritting his teeth now as his fists clenched from the frustration.

"Goddamn it. I said leave it." He answered back in a dangerously low tone, his determination on the brink of crumbling.

"What she do to you, Mike?"

"I said fucking leave—"

"What did she _do_?!"

"For God's sake's! I said—"

"_What the fuck did she do?!_"

"She cheated on me, _alright_?!" He screamed back, tears finally clouding his eyes from repressed resentment. He didn't want to let anybody know that what Heather did hurt him, and he most certainly did not want his best friend, out of all people, to know that what had happened to him had hurt like a shot to the chest. It was all useless now. "There, I said it! Are you fucking happy now, huh?"

He just stood there in front of his best bud, his eyes wide and his breathing frantic as he struggled to maintain his composure. Across, Vic just looked at him silently, his friend's face showing complete understanding and sympathy to his plight. This was fucking ludicrous. He was a marine, goddammit. He defended innocent people and killed bad ones for a living, and yet when the girl who he was starting to fall for cheats on him, everything comes tumbling down like a house of cards.

He looked away from Vic's gaze, unable to look the man in the eye. He was a disgrace, and he hoped to God that he could've turn back time, wishing he could've died during that fateful day instead of breathing right this second. The pain he'd tried so hard to conceal came back vehemently, forcing him to once again relive that heart wrenching sensation he had felt before he left London.

Oh, who was he kidding? It still hurt like a bitch, it really did. And it'll probably never go away for a long, long time. His knees suddenly became week, and Mike had to sit on a nearby cot.

"Jesus man…" Vic whispered after a few moments worth of silence. "I'm sorry…I thought…"

"Yeah," He sighed, just looking down on the ground, "don't worry about it."

"How'd you find out?"

"I saw 'em with my own eyes, Vic." He recalled, painfully recollecting what he had seen a while back. "Kissing that guy, and…"

"I think I get the gist of it, bro." His best friend luckily let him stop that particular train of thought. "Damn, I actually believed that she'd stick with you."

"You and me both, bro." Mike exhaled, finally looking up to Victor. "You and me both."

"If it's any consolation man, I think what she did was wrong. And you deserved better."

"Well, you're not the first one who's said it, man." Victor raised an eyebrow at his statement.

"Really? Then who did? Wait…" The private's eyes narrowed at him. "Oh Mike, you didn't…" He raised his arms defensively at his best friend's assumption.

"No man! It's not what you think—well okay, it almost happened that way. But still…"

"Did you or did you not bang a rebound chick?" Vic just casually asked, simplifying it.

"No," He sighed, wringing his hands together nervously, "but I almost did."

"Almost? As in…?"

"Christ, Vic. What, you wanna know the details now? I almost slept with her, but I stopped it in the last minute. Period." Victor stared at him for a few seconds before bursting out in laughter, the man's own merriment a slight cathartic release to Mike's overly miserable mood. It helped out a little bit to alleviate his depression.

"So, this chick you almost banged—" Mike groaned and muttered something in disbelief "—what was she like?"

"She's—" He tried to explain, but couldn't continue his description of the woman who, as of right now, was invading his thoughts. He honestly forgot what her name was, but what he did remember most were her brownish eyes with a hint of hazel, and her shy smile. Well, her facial features were absolutely gorgeous and all, and he bet she could give Heather a run for her money in the looks department, but what he most found alluring was her smile.

There was just something about it that tends to drive him completely insane, and he knew he was being irrational about it and exaggerating a bit. Yet, if he wasn't kidding with himself, that was what drawn him to her the most. And he couldn't stop thinking about it to the point of being crazy. Or maybe he _was _already crazy.

"That awesome, huh?" Victor said out of nowhere with a smirk.

"I'm sorry, what?" He replied incoherently, disconnected from his thoughts of her. His best friend just waved an amused, dismissive hand.

"It's nothing, man. So, you going to see this chick again?"

"No, I'm not." He replied with a soft tone, his shoulders slumped and his head hung low.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it wasn't right, I was drunk and she deserved better than someone like…well, me." Victor just scoffed at his admission.

"You're selling yourself too short, man."

"Maybe, but I know I did the right thing. I gave her my tags and ring to remind her that she definitely deserves better."

"You're shitting me, right?" The private asked in disbelief. "I can understand giving the tags and all, we could always get a replacement from the admin office. But, your class ring? Jesus H. Christ, you're fucking crazy man." He gave out a dry chuckle at his best friend's response.

"I didn't need it anymore. Besides, it reminded me a lot of Heather and I needed to get rid of it."

"Well, I guess that sorta makes senses." Vic conceded with a sigh before turning solemn. "In all seriousness bro, I really am sorry about Heather."

"Thanks, man. I appreciate the thought." He replied to the man with a sad, genuine smile.

_I need to get my shit together._

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**Don't forget to tell me what you guys think**

**-Rookie571**


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